Children of Chaos

Eighteen

PAOLA APICELLA

stood by the door, not daring to go out on the balcony lest the crowd down there see her and harm her, mindless rage-beast that it was. Torches flamed and sputtered in the night, the fires of war. The battle was reaching in through windows and over walls; she could hear missiles striking shutters, strife downstairs—voices raised in fury, sounds of destruction, animal howls as Werist tangled with Werist.

Behind her, the child slept the sleep of innocence in her crib. One wavering flame above the little bronze lamp revealed a room of luxury, full of lustrous hangings, soft mats, plump quilts. Palaces were very fine, but it was time to leave. Paola crossed the room to the lamp. She held it to the hangings, and when she had sent fire licking up those in three or four places, she tipped oil and burning wick on the sleeping platform. The bedding leaped eagerly into flame and acrid clouds that stung her eyes and throat. Now the defenders had more than the attackers outside to worry about.

She scooped up the child, so heavy now! She was not soon enough, for something heavy dropped on the balcony in a scrabble of claws. A monstrous black shadow towered up against the glow outside, then shimmered and shriveled and became a very large Vigaelian, soaked in blood and sweat, naked except for a brass collar. He was panting almost too hard to speak.

"She-fiend!" he gasped. "What have you done? Give me the brat." He strode forward, one hand reaching for her throat and one for the child. "We need you no longer, chthonian."

She had done what was needed. The babe was weaned and now the woman had seriously upset the satrap by setting his palace alight, so he was going to kill her.

Hate!

He reared back. "Stop that!" He tried again, and this time he fell back farther. "What are you doing? Stop it!"

Hate-hate-hate! She advanced, still clutching the child, who also had strength that the woman could draw on. The Werist backed away, screaming curses, trying to fend her off with wild swings of his fists, although she was not even close to him. He came to the doorway and his screaming took on a new note.

"Weru! Holy Weru! Help me!" He backed right out onto the balcony, howling in terror. The crowd-beast recognized him and screamed its rage. Missiles pattered like hail. A bronze-tipped shaft sprouted from the Werist's chest. Then another. He twisted around, displaying the feathered ends, staggered a few steps, took two more hits, and toppled over the balustrade. The mob cheered him all the way down.

Paola turned back into the smoke and hurried the child away to safety.

♦

A clap of thunder like the end of the world jerked Frena upright and awake. She gasped for breath, hearing the drumming of terror in her heart. Sweat trickled down her face. No reek of smoke making her eyes burn, no raging mob outside, but the vision had been as clear as life itself. Where? When? Apicella escaped... What was the name the seer had mentioned? Jat something. Satrap Karvak, another of Hrag's sons... died during the sack of Jat-Nogul...

Another stunning thunderclap sent Frena dashing, naked, to the window. One should be careful what one prayed for, Horth always said. She had prayed to the Old One to save her from having to visit the Pantheon.

A bad enough storm could do that, but she did not want to see half of Skjar leveled in the process. Usually the canyon sheltered the city from the worst winds, but it could channel them, too, and waves could do even more damage. Rarely a storm surge lined up with the gorge and caused massive flooding and destruction. Again the heavens roared.

The rainy season was about to begin in earnest.

♦

All morning a curtain of black rose steadily up the sky. By noon the waters had turned from bright blue enamel to lead, and an ominous swell was fondling the quays as if testing their strength for the battle to come. Everything movable had been trussed or stowed or battened, and most ships had been towed around to the safety of Weather Haven. Thunder rumbled constantly.

"We'll all die!" Ni whimpered.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Frena snapped. "You've seen storms before. This house is built of stone! It's the safest place to be."

The fan Ni was wafting at her made no difference whatsoever. Everyone was staggering and gasping in the steamy air, hurrying to ready her ladyship for her departure—Inga making final adjustments to the mother-of-pearl combs holding up her hair, Plumna applying the final touches to the silvered fingernails, Lilin kneeling to adjust the flower petals on her slippers. The rest were trying to tidy up, and outside the sun had disappeared.

"If the gods are kind my lady will make it home again before the storm," Inga said soothingly. Efficient Inga had led the team dressing Frena for the great occasion—several pot-boilings of bathing, primping, curling, scenting, powdering, and painting.

Or the gods might rain on her procession as a penance for ever having flirted with the Old One. These visions she had been having—were they anything more than evil deception from the Mother of Lies? If the Old One wanted Frena to swear to Her, then why had She not shown her how it was done? She was so giddy from stress and lack of sleep that she hardly cared which god or gods she would accept today. Since before dawn she had danced a wild gavotte of overseeing cooking, baking, table preparation, the arrivals of fresh produce, wine decanting, stabling, checking and double-checking a myriad of other details. No one had ever organized so large a feast in so little time! Then had come the preparation of Frena herself, but even in her bath she had been kept abreast of the preparations by a constant stream of reports. The jugglers had arrived, the geese had been put in the ovens, some of the guest gifts were late, the wine jars were being cooled in wet rags...

A mere three days ago this miraculous white gown had not existed. White was the traditional color for dedications and all agreed that it set off her coloring to advantage. Overruling impertinent protests from Inga, Frena had chosen a daringly low-cut bodice. She had the figure to support it, so why not let the world admire? For three days and nights, legions of sleepless seamstresses had labored to pleat and hem and, above all, stitch on pearls. More than ten sixty pearls shone like summer dew, defining and stiffening the bodice. Another few sixty formed the choker she wore on her neck, about as many the two matching bangles, and there were even more in her tiara. She preferred not to think about recent mortality among oysters.

Inga held up the mirror so she could make a final inspection. No great beauty peered back at her. White face powder was the customary makeup for maidens going to make their vows; on her complexion it would look ridiculous, so she had spurned it. An adequate face, but no one would ever mistake her for holy Anziel come visiting mortals. A young Veslih, just maybe—motherly, competent, defender of the hearth. Not, she hoped, Mother of Lies, Womb of the World, or any of the Dark One's even less flattering titles. No one ever made images of the Old One.

"Thank you all," she said. "You have done marvelously. Let us go down so my father and everyone else may see the fruits of all your hard work."

"The master is waiting outside, mistress."

"Then bring him in at once!" Frena said crossly. When Horth appeared, she curtsied low.

He bowed. "Oh, my chick has grown up! Behold the swan."

Not a swan, a cuckoo. He had lied to her all her life, but she did not hold it against him. He had raised her, protected her, cherished her. The doge man in Florengia had given her away.

She was amused to see that Horth was not resigned to skulking in her shadow, even on this, her special day. His robes were more dazzling than hers, ablaze in embroidery and gems ... a jeweled cap to hide his baldness, dye to make his beard less hazy, shoes even higher than normal. She embraced him carefully, not wanting to knock him over.

"Exquisite, my dear! Turn around. Your mother would be proud. You are truly gorgeous, Frena! Oh, I shall have to summon half a dozen of my best tallymen to keep track of all the marriage offers I will hear tonight."

"It's quite easy, Father. You just keep saying no! Yes?"

He chuckled. "Yes, 'no' it will be. I keep my promises." But according to the Witness, he would shortly be offered a candidate who could not be refused.

As they set off along the corridor arm-in-arm, with her skirts whispering exciting secrets to the tiles, she sensed his limp and knew his back still troubled him. She slowed down, taking this last chance for a private word with him.

"Father, listen. I don't truly believe that the satrap's wife cares one raindrop about my reputation."

"Frena—"

"Let me finish, please. Gods know her own reputation stinks high enough, and if Skjar had to vote for the most likely Chosen in—"

"Frena! I asked you not to—"

"Listen to me! If it turns out that the Queen of Shadows has a match in mind for me, you will be in trouble if you do not cooperate. I hope I'm wrong, but please don't put yourself in danger by sticking to that promise you gave me."

She glanced at him to see his reaction, but he showed no signs of taking her words seriously. Indeed, he laughed as they turned the corner and started downstairs.

"Frena, Frena! Don't worry. I hope you won't rush into matrimony, my dear. I don't want to share you with anyone. But if any woman can afford to pick and choose, you can. I shall be very lonely when you fly off to a husband, and all my wealth cannot dispel loneliness." That was an unusual concession from him, but he was keeping something from her, some plot, perhaps.

Halfway down the stairs, she paused to enjoy the applause. Most of the household staff had gathered to watch her arrival, and all the shop employees were there as well. She was running late, for there must still be well-wishing and gift-giving from the employees, with exactly five of the most senior men being allowed to kiss the debutante—those selected having been advised beforehand. Master Pukar was not one of them. Then off to the Pantheon and...

She was still five or six treads from the bottom when shouts of protest from the doorway alerted her to trouble. Horth staggered to a halt; she steadied him, and heard him mutter something she suspected was a prayer. Brass collars were advancing through the crowd, people shuddering away in alarm from brutal stubbled faces, massive bare limbs. Their leader halted at the bottom of the stairs, fists on hips. He had eight Werists at his back.

"Huntleader Perag Hrothgatson!" Horth exclaimed, resuming the descent with Frena still on his arm. "Twelve blessings on you, Hero, and your fine warriors. You have doubtless come to inspect the security arrangements for the visit by our noble satrap and—"

Perag had a sneer to swallow an ox. "Ain't he gorgeous, lads? Which one's the prettiest, do you think?"

Horth's smile did not waver. "May I offer you and your men some refreshment, Huntleader? Too early in the year for wine, I'm afraid, but we have some fresh-made beer."

Including two soured batches that would do perfectly for these brutes.

"I came for you, boy. My lord wants you."

"There must be some misunderstanding." Horth halted two steps up, so his eyes were more or less level with the intruder's. "Satrap Eide and his lady are invited to our feast."

At close quarters the Werist smelled bad and looked worse. His height and width were incredible. Verk and Uls and the rest of the house swordsmen stood against a distant wall, livid with fury and shame, completely irrelevant.

The Werist shook his head contemptuously. "Tell him when you see him. Take him, lads!"

It had been rehearsed, obviously. Moving impossibly fast for their size, two younger thugs jumped forward and grabbed Horth's arms. Hoisting them high, like flagpoles, they wheeled around and ran him out of the hall, bearing him backward with his humiliation visible to everyone. His jeweled cap slid down over one eye and his head only barely cleared the lintel.

"This is outrageous!" Frena yelled. "The satrap himself ordered this ... ordered ..."

The Werist's leer stopped her.

"Not bad! Dusky beauty, they call this, lads. Tradition is, men get to kiss the maiden."

Frena bleated, "No!" She tried to back away, up the steps, but his great arms reached out and plucked her like a berry. He crushed her to him and forced her lips apart with his. It was the most disgusting experience of her life—feet clear of the floor, back bent almost to the breaking point, and that animal slobbering in her mouth. She punched and kicked and gained nothing. When he had done, he laughed and handed her to the man beside him, who repeated the process. Fingers pawed and squeezed her. Without letting her touch the floor once, the brutes passed her along the line as if they were sharing a wineskin. The last one set her down on her feet and she fell backward into somebody's arms. Now she had some idea of what a collective rape would feel like—performed in front of the whole household, including all of Horth's swordsmen.

"Wine!" she gasped. "Vinegar! Brine! Anything!"

Someone handed her a beaker of wine. She rinsed her mouth and spat into a bowl conveniently offered. "Ugh! Filthy brutes! Don't they ever bathe?" The intruders had gone.

"It makes little difference with that lot," Verk said. He was white-lipped with fury.

"My lady, your hair," Inga bleated. "Oh, your train!"

Frena drained the rest of the wine. "Mother of Death take my hair!" she roared. "And take them! Verk, follow me. Are the chariots ready?" Without waiting for an answer, she plunged into the crowd and it opened for her.