Children of Chaos

twenty-one

FABIA CELEBRE

dressed again in the remains of her sodden gown. Shivering from cold and delayed shock, she found and appropriated Master Pukar's leather cloak, into whose capacious inner pocket she stowed her pearl bracelet and the few other trinkets that had survived. His wrap she tossed into the shaft after him as a shroud. She found no lamp, but the possible significance of that absence did not occur to her until she was almost back at the outer door, navigating the unlit passage with little trouble. Of course a Chosen would be able to see in the dark! That realization shook her more than anything that had happened yet, even Pukar's death. She was one of them now. Had Pukar been one or an imposter? The seer had warned her that there was never any way to tell.

Inconspicuous slits and knotholes in the ancient door provided a complete view of the alley outside, so that Mother Xaran's worshipers could depart unseen. The thunder had moved on but rain still roared and the alley was a stream. Fabia had very little idea of where she was or even where she should be trying to get to—home, palace, or Pantheon? The same monster wave that had smashed the Eelfisher bridge must have taken several others, so the way home would be a long detour around by Live Ringer and Handily. The palace was no closer and she could not go there looking like something spurned by seagulls. The Pantheon was nearest and would offer help.

A few people in cloaks and hoods splashed along, bent against the downpour. Fabia halted a woman at random and traded one of her precious mother-of-pearl combs for directions and a pair of reed sandals—chuckling at the thought of what Horth would say if he knew. After that she could manage a better pace, limping through the mud and rain while her business associate stared after her openmouthed.

The rocky bowl where the chariots waited for their owners to return from the Pantheon was a knee-deep lake packed with wailing multitudes and angrily braying onagers. Rain was hammering down unhindered, but as much of the stairway as she could see was dangerously crammed. There were also far too many onagers in the crowd, like snakes in a vegetable patch, and if she reached the steps without being kicked or bitten or both it would be—

"Mistress! Mistress Frena! Aee!"

—a miracle.

Black hair did have its uses. Verk was standing high, obviously in a chariot, waving both arms wildly. She acknowledged the wave and headed in his direction. The ribbons and flowers on the car were almost as bedraggled as she was.

When she arrived he looked her over and said "Aee!" several times. "I must take you to the sanctuary of holy Sinura at once, mistress."

Suddenly she felt incredibly weary, as the stressful days and sleepless nights caught up with her. "No. Just home. The Healers will be overloaded with far worse injuries than mine. I took a tumble, is all. Nothing serious." The cut on her hand would not be noticed among all the other scrapes.

Yelling and cracking his whip, Verk began the tricky process of guiding the onagers out of the crowd, but they were almost uncontrollable, driven out of their asinine minds by the rain and tumult.

"What are all these people doing?" she demanded.

"Giving thanks for not being drowned, mistress."

The disaster had allowed her to make her vows of the Old One as she had wanted, but she did not like to think that it might have been sent for that purpose. "What about those who did drown?"

His pale eyes twinkled. "They were impious people who deserved what happened."

They laughed together. Unkind, yes. Blasphemous, certainly. But they were alive when so many were not, and it was only human to rejoice. Between cursing at idiots of two and four legs both, Verk explained how he had seen the bridge go, but only after Fabia had already vanished into the rain. He had taken a roundabout way to the Pantheon and been waiting and watching for her ever since, overhearing news of terrible destruction on the seaward islands—Crab, Blueflower, Saltgrass, and Strand—and lesser damage as far upstream as Slanted. Naturally, he had no information on what had happened to Horth since the Werists had carried him off.

She gave him a vague account of her accident, reflecting that if she told him the whole story he would faint right out of the chariot. She had not yet grasped all the consequences of her actions. From now on her life would never be free of danger. And what had she gained, in return for a lifetime of jumping at shadows? A long lifetime, supposedly, if she could avoid being buried alive too early. She could see in the dark better than before, which might be useful, but what of the strange power that had destroyed Pukar and Satrap Karvak? A knack for making men walk backward was certainly not a skill to be displayed in public, and of limited usefulness, since she could not count on finding rebel archers or bottomless chasms in the background very often. It might be a form of the evil eye. The seer had hinted that Paola had brought down some of her Werist assailants in her death struggles, and polytheists could not do that. Fabia needed a teacher, but she just could not imagine herself hailing down Saltaja Hragsdor with a cheerful demand for lessons in cursing.

Fabia had killed a man. She tried not to think too hard about that...

"Verk?"

"Mistress?"

"Why did you come here and wait for me? You must have known I was heading for the palace?"

The chariot lurched down the muddy street. Verk stared straight ahead, rain dribbling from his helmet to his craggy, fresh-shaven face and on down his shiny mail.

"A lucky mistake, mistress."

"Yes, but now tell me the real reason."

He squirmed. "Last night, mistress ..."

"Well?"

"I had a dream. I was in that place and many, many people were wailing. And you were there, calling me ... mistress." He shot a nervous sideways glance at her, eyes all white.

Dreams came from the Mother of Lies, of course. And Fabia had tried to rescue the Chosen at Bitterfeld. That was why he looked so frightened.

"Then it was a miracle. But I will see that Father rewards you well."

She was very tempted to add, "And I give you my blessing." But Verk had been very loyal, and it would not be fair to terrify him even more.

♦

The crisp smell of the sea bore sinister, sour overtones. Weed and debris on the streets were the first signs of flooding, but not the last, and soon the destruction was total—ships on top of houses and houses on what had once been ships. Skjar had not been smitten so badly in many lifetimes. Many bridges had gone, but Verk found a way back to Crab, where great stretches of island had been swept clean.

Horth's extravagant habit of building in stone had paid off, for the Wigson residence remained standing, solitary defiance in the midst of desolation, with lights showing in downstairs windows. There had been damage, of course—doors and shutters ripped away, the grounds devastated, the main floor gutted. Dazed servants were digging golden goblets out from heaps of sand, seaweed, and shattered furniture.

Fabia's appearance was greeted with cries of joy. Dozens crowded around her, gabbling out all the good news hidden behind the bad. The first warning surf had come surging over the docks just after she left, they said, while everyone had still been in the great hall, no doubt enjoying a juicy gossip about the master's abduction and his daughter's unorthodox departure. Master Trinvar had rushed everyone upstairs and there had been no casualties, as there surely would have been had the staff been scattered throughout the whole complex as usual.

So the goddess of death had spared this house? The Bright Ones expected praise and sacrifices when they behaved nicely, but even to suggest these for holy Xaran would be regarded as blasphemy.

Fabia had just established that there had been no news of the master himself when more cheering from the entrance announced his return, and Horth limped forward into the torchlight. His hat had gone, his jeweled robes were muddy and sodden, and the city's richest inhabitant resembled a bedraggled, shipwrecked bindlestiff, but he seemed to be unharmed, which was all that mattered. Fabia ran to him and they hugged, two battered waifs jabbering delight and relief, tears and laughter. She ex plained about her narrow escape on the bridge and the chariot upset.

He sighed. "So we will have to start over. You will have to organize a new celebration. We must ask the high priestess to set a new date for your vows."

Thereupon Fabia had what seemed like a brainwave. The idea of swearing false oaths was repugnant; Paola had passed on her dislike of hypocrisy. "Celebration, yes, but when I reached Temple and the bridge fell behind me, and the storm came, and ... well, I realized that there could be no banquet or anything today... but I found that little shrine on Steep Street and made my vows there. Very simple, just the bare ritual, no celebration. But that part's done!"

Horth's expression was oddly distrustful. "Congratulations!" He embraced her again.

Had her fast fable been plausible? She had made her vows, and Master Pukar had witnessed them, even if the ceremonial had been not quite what he had expected. Surely a single little lie today was better than forswearing herself to all the Twelve a few days from now?

"And Verk found me on Temple! I have never been more glad to see anyone in my life. You must give him a really big gift, Father!"

"I shall indeed!" Horth glanced around and then lowered his voice, excluding the servants. "Did Perag and his men pester you after I left?"

"They forced their filthy kisses on me. I do not like Huntleader Perag Whatever-his-name-is, Father."

"He fouls the world like dog dirt!"

Fabia was startled to see naked hatred flame up in his eyes. She had never known the gentle merchant speak so or look so.

"You know him of old?" she asked cautiously.

"He is suspected of ..." Horth's bland visor dropped back in place, as if he caught himself about to say too much. "... very serious crimes. But no one can prove such allegations."

The Witness had indicted Saltaja's involvement in Paola's death. But what had the satrap's wife to fear from the satrap's justice? With new understanding of Verk's cynicism about Skjaran courts, Fabia sought a safer topic.

"That brute is unimportant. Whatever can we do here? We are ruined! Your ships? The house! Oh, Father, you have lost everything."

He smiled and squeezed her hand. "I have not lost what matters most. I have greater resources than this. My ships are safe in Weather Haven, my competitors' are sunk. They will be ruined and I shall rise stronger than ever." He sighed and she guessed what was coming. "But I do have important news for you, my dear." He glanced around again and the few servants still clustered nearby hastily returned to work. Only old Master Trinvar was close, holding a torch, and he was hard of hearing. "This seems wrong, my dear—telling you in this midden. Let us go upstairs and send for some wine."

"No, spit it out here. The floors upstairs are clean. I was right? Silver trumpets and ribboned sweetmeats?"

He nodded ruefully. "I truly had no choice, my dear, as you foresaw. I keep thinking of you as a child, but you're truly a very resilient young woman now. Very few could shrug off such a day so easily. We must get you to a Sinurist before you leave, so you are in shape for—"

"Leave?"

"The lady Saltaja—" Horth fell silent, scowling angrily over her shoulder. Half a dozen Werists had entered the hall, with the distinctive figure of Satrap Eide himself rolling along behind. Hateful, sour-mouthed Perag was not among them, but behind the hostleader, with white robes glimmering in the gloom, came a seer, picking her way daintily through the nauseating debris and holding her skirts above her ankles.

Fabia sent a quick but silent prayer off to her goddess, the Mother of Lies. Nine Witnesses in Skjar, she had been told. This one was too short and too plump to be the one who had accosted her at the Pantheon, so whose side was she on?

Eide was peering around. "We seem to be too late, lads, hm? But it must have been quite a party!" He bellowed laughter while his men smilingly said that their lord was kind. The satrap enjoyed his own jokes, while rarely understanding others'.

"Such a party it would have been, too," Horth said sadly, to Fabia or just to himself. "I often think that the harder one pursues happiness, the faster she runs away."

"But if you would just sit down under a tree she would come and join you!" Fabia gave him a one-armed hug. "Come, let us offer our guests a friendly beaker of hemlock." She led the way forward to greet the satrap.

Eide Ernson had the largest head Fabia had ever seen on a human being, although thinking was not what he used it for, as evidenced by the horn stubs on his temples. His neck and shoulders were to scale, but from there he tapered down to quite spindly legs, and his arms were unexceptional—all his limbs being visible because he wore a Werist pall. Naturally top-heavy, he always swayed as he walked; now the weight of waterlogged cloth made him roll like a cockleshell in a high sea. She had never known him to be anything but cheerful and courteous, but she suspected his bovine stupidity was not entirely genuine—his habit of making mooing mmm? noises while he talked was too good to be true—and he was undoubtedly ruthless, powerful, and dangerous.

"Fire and blood, girl!" he boomed as Fabia rose from her curtsy. "Your father is strict, mmm? Who won this battle? Did he finally beat a consent out of you?"

"She took a fall from a chariot, my lord," Horth explained. "I have not even had time to pass on the good news."

"News?" Fabia said brightly. "What news, Father?"

"You are betrothed," the satrap said, staring at her with huge, sad, bovine eyes. "My nephew—wife's nephew, rather. Son of her brother Horold, up in Kosord, mmm? Name of Cutrath."

"He is just two years older than you, dear," Horth added, eyes sending anxious warnings. "And newly initiated into the Heroes."

Bliss! Teenage monster, what every girl dreamed of. Even forewarned by the seer, Fabia needed all her self-control to feign pleasure. "Oh, Daddy! How wonderful! What is he like? Tall? Handsome? And our roots are so humble! What have I done to be so honored?"

Horth would be grateful for the support. Eide would not care whether she meant what she said or not, and his escort probably expected her to swoon with joy at such news. She hoped the dumpy seer in the background had a strong stomach for hypocrisy.

The satrap shrugged his mountainous shoulders. "It's a long story, mmm? Wife can explain on the way. Going to go with you for the wedding, mmm? In Kosord."

So Saltaja would be her jailer? The only ray of sunshine on this pestilent landscape was that Kosord was a long way off, so there would be plenty of time to consider a plan of escape. The deepest blight was the prospect of many sixdays in the company of Saltaja Hragsdor.

Endure!

"Oh, that will be nice! Gods!—the trousseau I will need! And of course I must help Daddy kins redecorate here." She sighed. "It will be just ages before I can meet my new lord. But, oh, I can't wait!"

She was overdoing it. The Werists exchanged smirks. Even Eide's big eyes narrowed a fraction.

"You won't have to, child. If my wife says you're leaving tomorrow, you leave tomorrow."

"And I am coming with you," Horth said.

She gaped at him, speechless. He, who rarely even left the house and never the city? Where would he find his barley cakes and ibex milk in a riverboat?

He gave her hand a warning squeeze. "We shall organize a great wedding in Kosord to make up for your spoiled dedication."

She faked a squeal of joy so she could hug him and whisper "Hostage?" in his ear.

He kissed her cheek with a soft uh-huh of agreement.

So any plan of escape would have to include both of them—the Florengian hostage and the hostage for the hostage. "That is so kind of you, Father! But what about your business? What about this house?" She gestured at the disaster all around them.

"I have good men to run my affairs until I return, dear." He turned. "Master Trinvar, there must be many, many homeless in Skjar now. Pray convert this house into a shelter for them until I return. The satrap and his lady have very generously offered Mistress Frena and me hospitality at the palace until we leave, for it escaped damage."

Of course a few sixty squatters in Horth's mansion might discourage the satrap himself from moving in during the owner's absence. Before Fabia could comment, a new voice spoke—a throaty, vibrant voice as musical as a silver flute.

"Your benevolence is commendable, trader," said the Queen of Shadows.

Saltaja Hragsdor was a tall woman who invariably wore the black robes of a widow, even to a black wimple and floppy black cuffs covering her hands. In the glimmer of Trinvar's torch she was only a disembodied face. It was a remarkable, not a beautiful face, very pale even for a Vi-gaelian, with bloodless lips and prominent nose and mouth; it was also unusually long and narrow, as if her head had been squeezed in a vise. She advanced through life with high disdain, seemingly expecting walls to open at her approach.

Fabia hastily curtsied as Horth bowed and spoke an apologetic welcome.

Behind Saltaja loomed a pair of very large young men. Where other highborn ladies went attended by maidservants, Saltaja preferred a bodyguard of Werists, usually just two, but always young and handsome. Bazaar gossip naturally insisted that they followed her into her bedchamber, but her husband must assign them to her service and did not seem to mind. Nothing could have interested Saltaja herself less than bazaar gossip.

The icy arrogance turned its attention to Fabia. "Your dedication, child? Did you make your vows today as planned?"

Fabia sent another fast prayer winging to the Mother of Lies.

"Yes, she did," Horth said.

"She has a tongue of her own."

"I made my vows, lady. Very hurriedly, I admit. I was just telling Father about—"

"Witness?" The satrap's wife never took her pale eyes off Fabia. "Is she telling the truth?"

For an instant that felt longer than a sleepless night, Fabia contemplated an open grave and the shortest-ever career as a Chosen. Even if the unknown Mist and her minions preferred her cause to Stralg's, they could not be expected to tell outright lies. No Witness ever did that.

The satrap picked up his cue. "Answer the question. Is she telling the truth?"

"Yes, she is," said the seer.

Fabia bowed her head lest her face betray relief and glee. The Queen of Shadows had not asked the right question.

Eide mooed ruminatively. "Then that's all right?"

"Apparently," his wife said.

"Mmm? Then welcome to the family, Fabia Wigson, or whatever your name is. That nephew of my wife's is no great thinker, but if he's anything like his uncles, you'll have no complaint in bed, mmm? Strong as a horse, mmm, lads? May holy Eriander bless your union."

Holy Eriander could go and do horrible things to herself, as far as Fabia was concerned. A Werist husband? Would nightmares make him change into a warbeast in his sleep? Would he have hunting dreams like a dog, wiggling his paws in bed?

Would he ripple his muscles for her to admire ...

... perhaps posing in front of an open window ...

... several stories up ...

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