Children of Chaos

nineteen

HORTH WIGSON

was dumped roughly in a chariot and his elbows tied to the rail, so he was bent over backward facing the rear. That position would have been awkward for any man; for him it was torture, and he was certain the two Werist whelps knew that. They pulled his hat down over his eyes and left him to suffer while they waited. Normally he would just add such humiliation to the bill, and the pain in his spine was trivial compared to the agonies of molten bronze the gods churned in his belly after every meal, but such open brutality was a very bad omen. Obviously his secret plans had been discovered. He had been very careful to commit no illegal act, nor had he confided in anyone, even Frena, but a tyrant who commanded the powers of seers could condemn a man for even thinking treason.

Thunder roared. A gust of icy air whirled through the heat and disappeared again.

Then Perag Hrothgatson said, "Ready?"

"The load's on board, my lord. Did you get a good grope?"

"Indeed. That's prime stuff, lad! Don't get to play with dugs like that very often."

This was all for Horth's benefit, of course. Hrothgatson was Saltaja's favorite henchman and had very probably led the mob that killed Paola. Had Horth ever managed to buy proof of that, he would have arranged for the Werist to die, but very probably was not enough to justify execution. The real culprit had been Saltaja, anyway. Alas, a Chosen was vulnerable to nothing less than a maddened mob. Or perhaps another Chosen—Master Pukar had been working on the problem for years without finding any sure way to strike at her. Now time had run out.

The man who jumped aboard, making the chariot lurch, certainly smelled like Perag, but nothing more was said. He whipped up the team, and they rattled off over the cobbles. With thunder roaring almost continuously the streets must be almost empty, but more speed meant more bouncing and so was of little consolation to Horth, who was flapped up and down like a rug until he thought his back would snap.

♦

The chariot rumbled over only four bridges before it stopped, so it had not gone as far as the palace. That was another bad sign. From the reek of urine and rotting meat, Horth could guess he was on Blackstaur, which was the tanners' island, but also home to other unsavory trades, as if evil stench attracted evil deeds. Many hands hauled him from the car and ran him indoors and down steps. When a door creaked open and then slammed shut behind him, the noise echoed spookily. A push sent him sprawling on slimy flagstones, stinking of sewer.

"Up!" Something hit him in the ribs, not hard enough to break any. He rose and pulled off his hat. He was in a cellar or crypt without windows, lit dimly by a single lamp and very crowded by three Werists, one of whom was Hrothgatson. "String him up!"

The same two bruisers as before tied ropes around Horth's wrists and hung him in the center of the cell with his toes barely touching the ground. Then they armed themselves with cudgels and waited, grinning eagerly. Horth was not in the least surprised when the huntleader produced a cloth and blindfolded him. This was all standard technique to put him in a cooperative mood. He had never been subjected to quite so much of it before, but he knew of others who had. He also knew of many who might have been, but had never returned to tell.

"Now, lord?"

"No hurry. Give him time to think."

The door thundered shut.

More bluff. Horth was supposed to start worrying that his tormentors might still be in there with him, about to strike without warning. They had left him fiendishly uncomfortable, dividing his weight between strangled wrists and toes already cramped; and yet that position did ease the fire in his back.

Although Werists were known for their brutality, the satrapy was popular in Skjar. The plutocracy Stralg had overthrown had favored the rich, taxing the poor and keeping them firmly in their place. Eide Ernson kept everyone in place, but he levied no taxes at all. On clay, he owed Horth more than sixty-sixty-sixty measures of gold, probably the largest single debt in all Vigaelia. Horth knew he would never see one copper twist of it again, because any request for repayment would be answered with bronze rather than gold. This did not trouble him. When another "loan" was demanded, he would negotiate some small favor that would cost the satrap himself nothing—a ten-year monopoly on salt, for instance. Thus Eide levied no taxes; Horth waxed even richer, ready to be fleeced again in the future; and the poor paid anyway.

This time the satrap or his wife wanted more than mere gold. Obviously they were after Frena—as even she had guessed—and Horth would give up everything he possessed rather than surrender his precious daughter into their talons. Saltaja was capable of understanding that, even if her blockhead husband was not. Alas, all pleasures were temporary, as a Ucrist well knew. All loved ones were hostages.

Tomorrow's joys and yesterday's,

Are sweeter than today's.

He had learned of the danger four days ago, when Perag had dragged him up to the palace at dawn so the Queen of Shadows could issue her absurd threats of denouncing Frena as a Chosen. Even the identity of the bridegroom she had in mind had been so obvious that Horth had seriously contemplated sending the two swordsmen to Kyrn with orders for Frena to flee. After a little consideration, that plan had seemed too risky and impetuous. Besides, a girl's dedication ought to be the finest celebration of her life, and he had not wanted to deny her that. Happiness was too rare to waste. He had decided to wait until tonight, after all the guests left, and then break the news and offer her the choice. The ship would have been ready. Knowing Frena, he was certain she would rather be a lifelong fugitive than the wife of a Werist.

He had been careful, but no one could outwit the Witnesses of Mayn. Now Saltaja would cut his throat or beat him to death, whichever pleased her, and then use his seal to transfer everything he owned to the satrap. It had been done to others before him. Frena would go to her fate as broodmare to a brute.

♦

Horth—the Wigson came later—was born in a wattle hovel on a scrubby islet in Ocean, to a mother who never quite recovered from one baby before starting another. Small, undernourished, and generally picked on, he had an utterly miserable childhood. His father was a sailor who came home at long intervals to drink up his pay, launch another baby, beat his wife, abuse his children, and brawl with his friends. His departures were cause for universal rejoicing. There was more to eat when he wasn't there.

Horth was roughly the tenth of twelve or fifteen, depending on how one counted stillbirths and miscarriages. The survivors all disappeared at puberty, heading for golden Skjar to find work, which was very easy at that age if you were not fussy about what you did or was done to you. Horth minded. He minded very much, and he was not cut out for hard labor, either.

What he wanted was wealth, and he soon decided that a steady supply of eggs beat one meal of roast goose. In a moneyless economy, that was not a trivial insight. Most rich people saw wealth as ownership of land or power and despised trade as beneath their dignity. Even merchants often thought of things bought with copper as different from those bought with silver, and likewise with gold. Converting one metal to another was just another barter, more haggling, so a universal scale of value was a difficult abstraction.

Having a knack for numbers and bargaining, young Horth talked himself into a job in a market and then an apprenticeship in the tallymen's guild. As soon as he had been inducted master tallyman, he was invited to join the Ucrist mysteries. It was typical of that cult that it had no priesthood and claimed no grandiose name for itself or its members: no "Heroes of..." or "Hands of..." Just Ucrists. Its shrine was a stuffy rented cellar and it met only when one of the brothers or sisters nominated a candidate for membership. Most initiates were far too busy to bother attending and knew that their god would approve of that attitude. Besides, there was something ridiculous about a congregation of wealthy merchants, ranchers, and mine owners standing around by lamplight singing psalms.

The rules called for a minimum of five sponsors, a quorum that could be mustered only by bribery. The aspirant borrowed a measure of gold from each sponsor at a ruinous rate of one sixtieth every sixday. Even in Skjar, that interest was worth having, and since the postulant would likely need several years to repay the principal, the total return was substantial.

Horth easily convinced his employer and four of the man's friends to sponsor him. He so impressed some others that almost a dozen people turned up to witness. By the rules, after the sponsors had testified that the tokens they had loaned him were of full weight and purity, the aspirant divided the five between two pots, one of gold and one of clay. Only then did he make his vows. Whatever had gone in the gold pot was an offering to the god and disappeared—holy Ucr expected to be recompensed for the trouble of attending rituals. The contents of the clay pot remained for the new initiate, who could either repay some of his creditors on the spot or use it as grubstake for his future fortune.

But it wasn't as simple as that.

Postulants seeking initiation into a mystery were never left in doubt about the blessings its members received. The price the god extracted was sometimes less clearly expressed—"written on the back of the tablet" as they said in the bazaar. Thus holy Ucr offered prosperity, while the oath that He required contained no mention of a corban, just an innocent-seeming mention that the postulant would make prosperity his "only joy." It was understood—a gentlemen's agreement between mortal and divine—that wealth and happiness would follow in the proportion of the measures in the two pots. Few candidates dared give the god more than three of the five, reserving two for themselves. To give Ucr four was regarded as foolhardy.

Horth was a man in a hurry. He dreamed of really great wealth, not mere comfort. He wanted to go home—just briefly, admittedly—to rescue his mother from her benighted poverty. He would probably also modestly assist his brothers and sisters, were he able to find them. He especially dreamed of showing his father what a rich man looked like and what a good team of bodyguards could do to repay certain ancient grudges. This being his highest ambition, he put all five measures in the gold pot.

Judging by subsequent events, the god was impressed by this offering. The mortal witnesses certainly were, to the point that many were receptive when Horth came calling a few days later to propose, in strictest confidence, partnership in a venture he had in mind. Within a sixday of being initiated, he had paid off his inaugural debt completely by borrowing more at much lower rates. Within a year he was free of debt and two of his sponsors had become his employees.

He never found time to revisit his birthplace. When he finally got around to sending someone in his stead, the man returned to report that Master Wigson's parents had been dead for some years and no one knew where his brothers and sisters were. As usual, tomorrow's joy had failed to materialize. Today's work soon drove it from his mind.

♦

Vicious cramps were knotting his legs and pain made his eyes water under the blindfold. Tears were for trivia, not for real grief. He had not been able to weep when Paola died, and he would not if they took Frena from him now. Corpses shed no tears.

Poor Frena! He had so wanted to give her a splendid day!

Tomorrow's joys and yesterday's,

Are sweeter than today's.

Where did that come from?

♦

The two great joys of his life had come to him late one afternoon a few years after his initiation, when he received a caller—a young Florengian woman with black hair in ringlets and fierce, dark eyes. He was upstairs in his counting room and had given orders that he was not to be disturbed, yet somehow she won her way past the doormen, walking in and taking a seat without being invited. She had a girl child with her, a toddler who stood by her mother, holding on and staring at Horth in silence, with unfathomable eyes.

Horth stared back, for he trusted the instincts the god had given him and they said there was profit to be made from this woman.

"What can I do for you, mistress?"

"Much. And I can do much for you."

He waited. The dark eyes grew even fiercer.

"This child is a hostage from an important city in Florengia."

"If you expect me to help you extract ransom from the children of Hrag, then you are sadly deranged."

She shook her head contemptuously. "I was hired as wet nurse to bring her here." She had remarkably little accent if the story was true, for the war was only a year old, so she could not have arrived in Vigaelia more than a season or so ago. "Later they tried to take her away from me."

"It is customary," Horth said, "to guard hostages closely. Granted that one so young would not think of escape, her guardian might."

"Her guardian did." She smiled grimly.

"When and where? I have no wish to find a pack of Werists clawing their way in through my window." He was puzzled by his increasing certainty that she would bring him profit; it was a feeling he often experienced when looking at a cargo of copper ore or swan feathers, and it was never wrong. But he could not see the means yet.

"Jat-Nogul."

"Ah!" The fish began to bite. "Rebels? The palace was burned in the sack, I understand. Satrap Karvak died."

"Yes, he did." The woman's smile sent a tremor of dread prickling all the way up his backbone. Surely not!

That possibility changed matters considerably.

But why not? Two gods might be better than one.

He took a moment to think before saying, "I do not view the slaying of any child of Hrag to be a crime. If anything, the reverse. Public statues may be in order. Do you know any of the details?"

"Yes."

"Are you—"

"Do not ask."

They stared at each other in thoughtful silence. She was no longer smiling. He who fences with the Old One needs a long sword, as they said in the bazaar. On the other hand—and Horth could play more hands simultaneously than almost anyone—his god was still whispering "profit" in his ear. Two gods would be better than one.

"You want sanctuary here, or transportation home to Florengia?"

"Marry me. Adopt the child. You are rich and going to be richer. You can afford a wife. I make a good wife." She smiled mockingly. "Wet nurses are seldom virgins."

"I suppose not." Horth, to his astonishment, felt himself returning that smile. She had an undeniable attraction, in an earthy sort of way. He had been meaning to look around for a wife but had never found time. "And what else do I get out of this, apart from your very appealing company?"

"We look after our own."

"Wives are expected to. Be more specific."

"Prosperity to you and ruin to your enemies."

"I do not approve of murder, if that is what you mean." She had endangered herself by saying as much as she had, and he was now in peril, too. If he refused her and she were genuine, she might put the evil eye on him. And if he did not report her, he might find himself an accessory to charges of rebellion. Or worse. Since holy Mayn's Witnesses would not testify in chthonic trials, holy Demern's Speakers could not pass judgment, and justice belonged to the mob.

"I am not in the habit of killing people," she said huffily.

"Can you offer me any evidence that you are what you are hinting you are?" He could not bring himself to say the word.

"I found you, did I not? Your lackeys let me pass, didn't they?"

He nodded. Those were convincing arguments.

The child turned and held up her arms. The woman lifted her onto her lap. "I have made you a fair offer. Do you accept or not?"

He took one more moment to think. He considered throwing her out—assuming he was able—but the prospect felt very wrong. "Marry you?"

Cuddling the child, she said, "My baby here says we have been married at least two years. You can invent a story."

He said, "Yes. All right. We're married. What's your name?"

She laughed. He laughed.

Strangely, after all these years, he remembered that unexpected shared laughter as vividly as he remembered the shared bed that eventually followed, although the sheer intensity of the pleasure she revealed to him that night had been one of the greatest surprises of his life. He had been a reasonably competent husband thereafter, until failing health affected his virility.

She shrugged. "How does 'Paola' sound? Paola Apicella. Name your daughter, master."

"Frena," he said at once, his mother's name.

It had taken his agents almost a year to pry out the rest of the story and establish the child's identity. By then it had not mattered. He never learned the details of Paola's background, for she had been a person of no importance.

Had she truly been a Chosen? He had never again tried to ask her. She had been loving and well loved. She could not be compared with the Queen of Shadows, whose foes died with ghastly speed and regularity. He had wondered, sometimes, when a business rival had sickened or met with misfortune, whether Paola's curses had assisted Ucr's blessing, but there had never been any way to tell for certain. He did not even know if the odious Pukar was what he claimed to be, or just a very slick imposter fleecing him.

Yesterday's joys ... Three years ago he had lost the mother and now he was going to lose the daughter. There was no joy in that prospect, no joy today. Alas, he had long ago learned that nothing replaceable was worth a care. All the incomparable wealth he had gathered, and the thing he prized most—

The door of the cellar creaked open.

♦

There were several of them. They let him hear their footsteps moving around him, but took their time before speaking. Despite his confidence, he was strung tight in expectation of sudden bone-shattering agony. "Ready to talk?" growled a low voice. "Mmm?" Even without his familiar mooing mannerism, Eide Ernson always sounded like a hungry, rather sullen, bull. He thought like one, too.

"How may I serve my lord?" Horth was admitting nothing. Any man dangling in a dungeon would address his captor as "lord."

"I want your daughter as wife for... a certain young man." Eide, simple soul, had almost said more than he had been told to say.

"A match approved by my lord would be an enormous honor. But I fear our ancestry is not worthy."

"Yours, no. Do you know who she is, mmm?"

Who else was present? Saltaja included her bovine husband in important meetings only when she needed testimony from a Witness. If a seer were present, Horth must not lie.

"I know. She does not. Her foster mother did not tell me—I made it my business to find out." There were times in negotiation when knowledge must be concealed. There were other times when it could be volunteered to advantage. "I have made it my business to keep abreast of Celebrian affairs ever since. Frena's father the doge rallied somewhat in the spring, but his health still causes great concern. I understand that a successor must be found, but I naturally assumed that one of Frena's brothers would be selected."

Outflanked by unexpected information, the satrap grunted.

"Is he telling the truth?" inquired the throaty voice of Saltaja Hragsdor.

Silence.

"Is he telling the truth?" Eide echoed.

"He is speaking what he believes to be the truth, lord," a woman said in the singsong voice of a seer witnessing. "His information concerning Celebre must be hearsay, as is yours."

"Mmm? Hadn't heard about the doge man rallying before."

Eide and the seer were both in front of Horth, and Saltaja lurked somewhere behind, and very likely there would be Perag or another henchman to wield the club if the meeting turned sour.

"The prisoner's information may be more up-to-date than yours, lord. I can judge only what he believes."

Eide grunted again. "Do you consent to the match, mmm?"

Horth drew a deep breath. "Will my lord do me the honor of describing the young man I shall be so honored to welcome into my house?"

"Who do you expect?" asked the Queen of Shadows.

"It would be absurdly presumptuous of me to—"

"Answer, or I'll have Perag break your legs." Saltaja had the reputation of never bluffing.

"My lady is kind," Horth sighed. "The last I heard from Kosord, the city was preparing to celebrate the imminent initiation of the satrap's youngest son into the Heroes. He is two years older than Frena. Since all your own sons and all your nephews were sent over the Edge as soon as they were blessed, Cutrath would seem to be a very logical candidate to become puppet ruler of Celebre."

"Mmm?" Eide bellowed. "He's been spying on us! Seer, how does he know that?"

"Ask him, my lord."

"How do you know that, prisoner?"

"Speculation based on public knowledge, my lord," Horth said.

"He speaks the truth."

Saltaja's voice cut through like a silver knife. "And do you welcome this match, merchant?"

He drew a deep breath. "No. I have always promised Frena that I would let her choose her husband. Meaning no personal disrespect to your nephew, my lady, for I have never met him, I do not think my foster daughter would favor a Werist."

"So what were you planning to do about it?" The menace was clear.

"Submit, of course! What else could I do about it? You have seers, you have Werists. Could we run away? Leave all my wealth behind? You think I am crazy?"

"Then why have you been packing chests with gold?" Saltaja demanded. "Why did you have them moved aboard a ship in Weather Haven in the night? Why did you send hampers of your clothes and the girl's with them?"

Trapped!

There was no acceptable answer, and Horth remained silent, waiting for the battering to start. They would kill him and take it all, declaring Frena underage and a ward of the satrapy. They had done as much to others before him. He ran sweat and every muscle in his body cringed.

He was saved from having to answer by the voice of the Witness. "I am not normally permitted to volunteer information, but under the circumstances I should advise you that a major storm surge has struck the city. Many sixty have drowned already and this cellar is about to be flooded to the roof."