Children of Chaos

seven

FRENA WIGSON

knew there was something wrong the moment she swept into the mansion. Servants bowed to her or knelt, depending on rank; they smiled, or looked shocked if they saw the cut on her shoulder. But there was something wrong. Master Trinvar, the steward, was hastily summoned to proclaim a formal welcome.

She thanked him. "Inform the master that I have returned. Tell Inga I want a hot bath right away. Has Plumna had her baby yet? Have my jewel cases brought from the vaults. I trust my rooms have been cleaned and aired? Swordsman Uls has broken his arm. Verk will bring him to the Chatter Place Sinurists for healing tomorrow, so pray dispatch a generous gift to them. I shall want music this evening. Verk still has my chariot, but inform the stable master that the left wheel is slightly off-true. Are the extensions to the servant quarters finished yet?"

Her queries answered, she hurried up to her rooms. Horth had broken with the Skjaran tradition of building in wood. The Wigson mansion was of stone, faced with tile, marble, and mosaic, shimmering inside and out. He never stopped enlarging, decorating, and furnishing with art. New things of beauty were displayed in prominent places, but after a few thirties they would be ousted by even newer prizes and moved to less public sites. When they were in danger of sinking to the servants' quarters, he would resell them. He boasted that he never lost on such trading, although it was the merest hobby.

Several life-size carvings in ebony had been added to the main staircase since Frena left, and she made a note to admire them in detail when she had a moment. She was not surprised to discover that the priceless Ashurbian funeral urns they had replaced now adorned her current rooms. No, the surprise was that her wardrobe had not been moved to somewhere even larger and grander while she was gone. The urns were an improvement on some now-absent malachite fish.

Her mother had always insisted on a bedroom overlooking gardens, but Frena preferred the waterfront. She loved the bustle and excitement, ships coming and going, brawny sailors and longshoremen toiling away. Ocean was bizarrely different from land. It seemed just as flat, and yet it ended in a sharp horizon not half a menzil offshore. Ships went over that edge, so that their hulls disappeared before their sails, or appeared after them. She found this fascinating and incomprehensible. Her longtime secret dream was of a handsome sailor sweeping her away in his ship in a trading voyage all around Ocean, lasting for years, visiting dozens of exotic cities and romantic islands. Father could supply the ship; the problem would be finding a suitably hunky sailor with refined manners.

Soon Inga led in a parade of damsels with jars on their heads, and in no time Frena was floating dreamily in her porphyry bathtub. Plumna sponged away her coat of road dust while Lilin busily laid out clothes, scents, and other necessities. Inga frowned at the cut on her shoulder and suggested summoning a Sinurist.

"It's nothing. A rock flew up and hit me. Now tell me all the news."

Good ladies' maids never gossiped, of course, so they had to make a mild pretense of resistance before serving up all the meaty dishes they had been saving. They began by repeating what Verk had already told her—Horth had been abducted before dawn the previous day by the satrap's Werists, and returned later in an unusually agitated condition. He had even called for wine, although he normally drank only ibex milk, and had gulped it while dictating the summons to his daughter. Verk and Uls had left before noon.

"There's talk of a big party, mistress!" Ni confided. "Stuff being brought in from the country."

Since her mother died, Frena had been Horth's hostess. She had organized some of the biggest parties Skjar had ever seen. She could not imagine why he should want to entertain when everyone with any wits had fled the city, but that would certainly explain why he had sent for her.

Later Lilin, who was married to one of the tallymen, let slip that Horth had been closing negotiations and calling in loans, as he did when he needed large amounts of bullion on hand. No feast could require gold on that scale.

By the time Frena swept down the stairs, past the ebony sculptures, she had learned everything the household staff knew, which was normally fifty-nine-sixtieths of what mattered. Ominously, she had only just missed meeting High Priestess Bjaria, who had come calling on her father with a sneer of lower priestesses in train. They had all been treated like royalty and laden with gifts when they left. What the two principals had discussed had not been audible to anyone else, but the servants clearly thought they could hear wedding trumpets in the near future. So could Frena. She was girded for war.

♦

Horth's normal workplace was opulent and designed to impress. His gilded chair was inset with ivory, jade, and mother-of-pearl, and also raised so he could look down on visitors and petitioners—servants, scribes, guild masters, ship captains, rival traders. In the hall's vastness he could negotiate without being overheard, yet a gesture would bring scribes and tallymen running from the far end. For more honored guests he descended from his glory and sat with them at equal level, on stools near the windows. The truly revered—the satrap or his wife, consular agents of other cities, the four or five heads of mercantile houses he chose to regard as his equals—were usually received outdoors, in the greater privacy of the water garden.

It was to this shaded glade that Frena was directed, being given the customary warning not to brush against foliage on the way in. A narrow curving path brought her to the little pentagonal court concealed within the fleshy jungle. Trilling fountains muffled whatever was said there, and any spy approaching to eavesdrop would learn nothing except the deadly properties of Navarian choke cherries.

Horth was slumped despondently on a chair, gazing at the paving, half turned from her. She wondered if she had been taking her summons too personally. His troubles might have nothing to do with her at all, other than a need for support. They had no family except each other.

"Father?"

He looked up sharply. "Frena, my love!" He rose to embrace her. She knew by his awkwardness that his back was hurting him again, and responded carefully. He was wearing thick-soled shoes, which normally meant company was coming, but there were only two chairs present.

Horth Wigson was singularly unimpressive at first glance and on closer inspection even more so—short of stature, spare and narrow, hollow-chested. His head was hairless, too large, and egglike, with prominent ears and a face tapering downward to a wispy beard. He lived on barley cakes and ibex milk, so the only excessive flesh on him anywhere was under his eyes, two crescents like pale segments of grapefruit. Those wan eyes blinked a lot, peering at the world in a permanent state of sad incomprehension. He was hard to overestimate. Yet even Frena, who must know him better than anyone, rarely knew what he was really thinking.

"Did you have a good journey? Please, please be seated. Have you eaten? We can go indoors if you wish... hoped it might be cooler out here. So hot... It will be better when the rains come." He was massively overdressed as usual, enveloped in brocade robes of gold and peacock blue.

The best method of defense, in Frena's experience, was not attack—for that could lead to pitched battle against overwhelming odds—but a vigorous flanking movement with enough implied threat to disturb established positions. As she sat down, she sent her skirmishers onto the field.

"Father, I heard a horrible story recently. I was told that rich people steal farmers' lands away from them by foreclosing on loans the poor men had to take out when their crops failed. Is that really true?"

The pale eyes blinked. "You mean is that really stealing? Or do you mean do starving peasants borrow from rich people? Or do rich people foreclose their loans? Or do you mean do I do such things?" He had a soft, disarming voice.

"Do you?"

He spread jeweled hands. "My agents are authorized to make loans to hungry peasants, yes. Usually sacks of grain, repayable when the harvest is in. They do require security, of course. If they didn't, do you think the debts would ever be repaid? Should my servants just give my grain away? Is that what you mean?"

"Well, no... But—"

Horth rarely came nearer a smile than a look of tolerant amusement, which is what he displayed now. Frena remembered that he must know her a lot better than she knew him.

"Let me ask you this, my dear. A peasant dies and his six sons divide the land between them. Each of them raises six sons and so on. Eventually the plots must become too small to support their owners, do you see? A young peasant may get by at first, but he will want a wife, and year by year his brood will grow in size and number. Drought, blight, and flood are the peasant's lot, and children his curse. Sooner or later he will fail and need help. Once he falls into debt, the chances that he will ever climb out again are very, very slim. Should he borrow from me at all? Should I help him when he asks?"

"Er... I don't know."

"I'm not sure I do either, my dear," he said sadly. "But were I in that peasant's fix, I would exchange my scrap of land for something more rewarding—a mill, say. Or a kiln, or a fishing boat." He sighed. "But then, I am not a peasant."

No, he was a very shrewd negotiator. Frena had been routed. He usually let her spin out the maneuvering longer than this.

When she did not speak, he placed his hands together in a familiar gesture, fingertip to fingertip. "As I'm sure you have already heard from the servants, my dear, I was called to the palace yesterday. A matter of business, mostly, but your name was mentioned."

"By whom? The satrap or that awful wife of his?" Saltaja, without a doubt!

Her father winced. "I know we cannot be overheard here, but remember that the satrap has Maynists to advise him. They can probably see us and hear us even here. A careless word could cause a lot of trouble, Frena."

Not the satrap! Frena could not imagine dumb old Eide bothering to spy on anyone, but she wouldn't put it past the Queen of Shadows.

"Of course, Father. Just in case a seer's watching, I'll tell you that I quite like the satrap. Even if he does have horns, he's a lot less grotesque than some of the other monster Werists I see wandering around the city." She laughed at his frown. "Don't worry! I'm old enough to guard my tongue where it matters."

"I hope so. It was your age that was mentioned. You're sixteen now."

"Yes, I know."

He tapped fingertips together. "Satrap Eide and his lady wife are... The problem is the Pantheon. It's falling apart, in great need of repair. The satrap wants to rebuild it. But the cost will be—"

"He wants you to rebuild it, you mean? Well, that's hardly fair. You're not a polytheist. You never go near the Pantheon."

"He wants me to make a contribution," her father said reprovingly, "which I said I would do gladly. And if my god does not object, then I fail to see what business it is of yours."

Startled by the rebuke, Frena nodded. "I'm sorry, Father."

"Your name came up because High Priestess Bjaria is wondering when you—"

"When I was going to have my dedication, I suppose? What business is that of hers?"

"Don't be tiresome, Frena. Of course it's her business. Most girls make their vows at fourteen or younger. It is very irregular to wait past fifteen."

"Only for the poor. The rich often wait longer." The dedication ceremony was official recognition that a girl had become a woman, so it was also the signal that her parents were open to offers. Unless they were wealthy enough to be choosy, a wedding would usually follow within a season. Nubile maidens were always in demand to replace wives who died in childbirth. "You promised me faithfully—"

"I know what I promised you, child!"

She jumped. He never raised his voice to her!

"I spend my life making and keeping promises, and I know exactly what I promised you—that I will accept no marriage offer you do not approve. Gods know I do not need a bride price. Nothing in the world could reward me for losing you, my dear, and I have missed you terribly while you have been away. But I never promised you could put off puberty until you reached menopause. You're my hostess, you wear a seal, you give orders to servants—it's unseemly that you have never made your vows. Scandalous, almost. It's being remarked on."

Stern did not suit him.

"By whom? Since when have you ever cared for gossip? You never go near the Pantheon. Mother never went near the horrible—"

"And see what happened!"

"What do you mean?" Frena cried, leaping to her feet.

Horth looked very small, sometimes. "The reason I do not offer sacrifice in the Pantheon is that I am a henotheist, as you well know. As everyone knows. Your mother did not have that excuse. Florengians worship much the same gods, but she found our rites strange. She was undoubtedly lax in her religious observances, and I blame myself bitterly for not foreseeing the danger. Most people did not understand her reasons. They jumped to fearfully wrong conclusions."

Frena shuddered. "I am sorry, Father." She began pacing, to the nearest fountain and back. They never discussed this, normally.

"It is too late for recrimination, but I should have seen that you are running the same risk. You must make your vows right away. High Priestess Bjaria has agreed to officiate in person, and I want you to organize a very lavish celebration. Spare no expense! Let the whole city know that you have done homage to the Bright Ones."

He had begun by mentioning his visit to the palace. Then he had implied that the dedication ceremony had been suggested by High-Mucky Bjaria, although she had come calling on him this morning, after he had sent for Frena. Had she also been present at the palace yesterday, or was he molding the truth to a more convenient shape?

"Who is hiding a needy bridegroom behind this, Father? Am I to be fighting off some snotty, spotty priestess's grandson, or a brutal, brainless relative of Satrap Eide's?"

"Frena!"

"Sorry," she muttered, although she wasn't. Bridegrooms and marriage and babies could wait. She wanted to travel and see more of Vigaelia. She had plans to set up an art factory, to encourage artists and craftsmen. Horth's wealth ought to defend her from unwanted suitors, but it would not keep the satrap away. "When do you want to do this?"

"The high priestess and I agreed on six days from now."

"What? You're crazy! Half a year!"

Horth rose. In his present footwear he was taller than she. "I am tolerant, Frena, but I am entitled to more respect than that."

"Sorry, Father. I spoke wrongly."

"Apology accepted." He smiled tolerantly. "You had better go and start planning."

Truly! Reports on Kyrn could wait, but Uls... She wished she had mentioned him sooner. "Uls broke his arm, Father. He was in a lot of pain, so we left him at By-the-Canyon and Verk drove me in. He will bring him to the Healers tomorrow. I told Master Trinvar to send a gift."

As well try to smuggle a mouflon lamb through a wolf pack as slide a half-truth past a Ucrist. Horth's eyes narrowed. "And how did Uls break his arm?"

Frena drew a deep breath. "Your hamlet of Bitterfeld—they were having some sort of ceremony and we drove too close. They didn't like us snooping, or something. Anyway, they threw things—"

"What sort of ceremony?"

Frena recoiled from his sudden shout, and then shouted right back. "They were going to bury a man alive!"

"No!" Her father collapsed on his chair, his face white. "And they thought you were coming to rescue him? Oh, Frena! How could you be so—What was Verk thinking—What did you do to Verk?"

"Do to him? Nothing at all. Whatever do you mean, do to him? I had no idea what was going on. I just wanted to see. Verk behaved perfectly, and we drove away as fast as we could." She stared at Horth. His eyes were oozing horror. "Father, what's wrong? Are you faint?"

He licked his lips. "You must take your vows, do you hear? Must! We'll make it three days from now, not six. Oh, why did I not see that this might happen? Tell Trinvar. I'll send word to the Pantheon."

Stupefied, she could only repeat "Three days?" like an idiot. "Oh, that's absolutely—"

"Three days!" Horth said, glaring, and she knew him well enough to know that he would not be moved.