Children of Chaos

twenty-three

BENARD CELEBRE

was at home, working on the statue of holy Anziel. It was noon in summer and there were almost no spectators around to bother him. Clang! Clang!

Rumble...

Angrily Benard changed hands, placed the chisel where he wanted it, and swung again, spattering chips like hail. Clang! Clang!

Rumble...

The thunder came not from the cloudless heavens but from his belly. He had rushed out before sunrise to start work and hadn't stopped to eat.

Out of range of the flying rubble, Thod was making grrk... grrk... sounds as he smoothed holy Sinura's left ankle with a sandstone rasp. He was also chattering like a starling, reporting everything his mother had overheard in the bazaar the previous day.

"You shouldn't repeat that," Benard muttered absently for the sixtieth time, estimating if he dared hold the chisel there and strike like this. He visualized the heart of the stone and where it would cleave. Clang!... Good. He had cut very close to Hiddi's shin, but not too close. He stepped back to admire the play of symmetry and asymmetry, the long curve from slightly tipped shoulder to the weight-bearing foot, the symbolic hawk perched on Her wrist, bird looking up, She smiling down. He did not consciously insert such trivia; the goddess did, and he carved as She directed. Her likeness stood knee-deep in uncut marble. He was not quite certain about her feet.

"I'm done, master," Thod said. "You mark some more for me?" Then he looked beyond Benard and said, "Eek! Master! Run!"

Cutrath Horoldson was stalking across the yard toward them. Benard dropped maul and chisel, wiped his hands on his smock and waited to see if this was the end. Murder would not worry a Werist much—in Cutrath's case it would help to restore his reputation—but public disobedience of an express command would be punished severely.

He came to a halt a few feet back and glared. Thod was trying to hide behind Sinura.

"I have to pose for you, slug."

Benard shook his head. "It isn't needed, lord. I know what you look like. The statue will be you exactly, twice life-size, as your honored father decreed. You will dominate the Pantheon. The extra marble is being cut, but it can't arrive before spring." He saw some of the stress melt from Cutrath's tendons and sinews.

"I'll be gone from here two days from now."

"I know what you look like. I'll remember."

"You don't know what all of me looks like," the Werist said with menace.

Benard resisted the temptation to say he would call in Hiddi as a consultant. "My lord is a true servant of his god. I am faithful to holy Anziel. I will carve your image as perfectly as I know how. Like this." He gestured at Her statue.

Cutrath looked surprised. "That's Hiddi!"

"I saw her that night we ... we ... that night."

"That's very good," Cutrath admitted.

Benard was glad he had dropped his maul earlier, for that remark might have caused him to drop it on his toes now. "Thank you!"

"But you haven't seen all of me."

"I'll be generous."

Cutrath thought that over, too. "Very well," he said, and turned and walked away.

Benard stooped to retrieve his tools.

Thod's worshipful grin had appeared from around Sinura's half-shaped hips. "Really generous?"

"In perfect proportion," Benard said sternly. "Anything else would not be art."

Rumble... said his belly.

He cursed and wiped an arm over his streaming face. The sun was murderous. "Fetch me some ... No, wait. I'll get it myself. Come and round off this corner for me." He scratched an outline. "That much. And that." He handed over chisel and maul, feeling his hands quivering from the work—time for a rest. As he headed across to the well, a beaming Thod prepared to build muscles.

Four priests in variegated robes emerged from the Pantheon, causing Benard to mutter under his breath again, but they turned and went off toward the river instead of coming to badger him as he had feared. Priests were pests, always wanting to inspect and criticize and bring guests to admire. So was hunger. And sleep. Anything that came between a man and his art was a pest.

He pulled up the rope, drank about half the bucket's contents, and tipped the rest over his head. As he started back to the future Anziel, a carrying chair emerged from the nearest alley. This time he swore aloud, something anatomical about pigs.

The chair was enclosed by a canopy and gauzy curtains so he could not see the occupant, but only a woman's conveyance would be so brightly gilded and enameled. The armed guard trotting ahead of it was a Florengian, as were its bearers, two brawny, deep-chested men. The guard was younger than they, slender and nimble-looking, wearing a sword on his back. All three were well turned out, with kilts of good quality, hair and beards neatly trimmed, although at the moment they were as breathless as if they had run all the way from the Edge, dusty and streaked with sweat from their exertions. The bearers set down the chair close to the statue of Mayn.

However annoying the interruption, Benard must be gracious. Women whose husbands could afford such a retinue were sources of future commissions. He wished he had not left the front of his shed undraped, showing all its intestinal clutter.

"Your mistress works you hard," he said in his rusty Florengian.

"I do not speak that language."

Only now Benard noticed the seal thong around the swordsman's wrist. His ears were not cropped, as the bearers' were. By the Twelve, artists were supposed to see!

"I beg your pardon, master swordsman. I assumed you were a prisoner of war."

The man smiled graciously. "A natural mistake, master. I am a freeborn citizen of Podarvik, two menzils from here. My parents still live there."

"There is cool water in the well. I am Master Artist Celebre, if you would be so kind as to present me."

"That's not needed," said a woman's voice. A hand glittering with seven or eight jeweled rings emerged from the drape.

Benard bent to kiss it. Then he recognized the perfection of its line and texture, the scent of her skin. He jumped back, startled. "Hiddi!"

"Who else?" She threw back the drape. "Go water the team, Nerio. I'm quite safe with this fellow."

The swordsman bowed and trotted off, gesturing for the slaves to accompany him. Hiddi favored Benard with a smile to slay armies.

"Master Benard! We meet again." She was enthroned in her chair, draped in a sort of pink spiderweb that did not reach her knees. Ropes of garnets, coral, and amber encircled her slender neck, her wrists bore a dozen bangles of gold, silver, and jade; jewels sparkled in her hair, in her ears; a tiara of pearls adorned the flaxen pillow of her hair. She was enjoying Benard's amazement.

Part of that was despair, though. How could he ever hope to match such perfection? What marble could equal the translucency of her skin?

She favored holy Anziel with a glance of twin sapphires. "You made that? How clever! Is that an owl?"

"It does not do justice to the original," Benard said warily. Having recalled that he had a gold arm ring buried under his sleeping mat, he had worked out why the Nymph had come calling. It was surprising that she had not caught wind of his windfall long ago, since Horold's donation had been so public. Benard was no longer a penniless artist, but that situation could be rectified.

"I am 'stremely impressed." Hiddi managed to look bashful. "It was terrible of me not to at once recognize your name that night you ... Thod! Go and play by yourself for a while. We grown-ups are talking!"

Thod had been listening with ears like winnowing fans and eyes not much smaller. He knew her! Whatever would little Thilia say if she heard that? At Hiddi's snarl, he turned an impossible shade of scarlet and shot a horrified glance at his master.

"Off with you!" Benard said, and Thod vanished in a spray of marble chips. "You know my apprentice?"

"I know them all. But as I was saying," Hiddi continued, obviously trying to make her voice sound less like a refugee's from a pig farm and more like a high priestess's, "I shouldn't have overlooked the name of the greatest artist in Kosord. As a collector of beautiful things myself, I am very honored to know you, Master Artist Benard." She flaunted her kohl-darkened lashes.

She was a child dressed up, robbing her mother's jewel box to play at being a queen or great lady. She was also unnecessary. Whether Nymphs were purely benevolent as they claimed or vicious gold diggers as their reputation labeled them, Benard needed no such distraction interrupting his work just now ... except maybe a quick glance at her feet. On the night they met, he had not taken adequate notice of her feet. Understandably. He could invent feet, but they would look wrong, at least to his over-critical eye.

"The lady is gracious to praise my art."

"That, too." She smiled coquettishly. Her face, her body, were delectable, incredible, but her flirting was clumsy and lame.

Puzzled, Benard said, "What can I do for you, mistress?"

The Nymph's sigh strained the muslin over those flawless breasts. "I still have to show you how thankful I am to you for rescuing me from those Werists." Earnest.

He bowed. "Say no more. It was my pleasure."

"I would be willing to show my gratefulness." Sickly coyness.

"I really am very busy today, Hiddi. I would appreciate a quick glance at your ankles, though."

"Just ankles?" Flirtatious.

"And feet."

"You should be more ambitious. Come back to my house with me and I'll show you all the pretty arty things I have, mm?" Imploring.

The prettiest of all were in plain view through her wrap. The lashes could not possibly be real—they were probably made of feathers and glue—but the rest of her was all genuine, every delicious morsel. Other appetites stirred. He could feel his resolution melting like snow in high summer. Rumble!

Hiddi smirked. "I'll feed you! I have a wonderful cook."

"No images of holy Eriander?"

"Not one, I promise!" Amazingly young, very desirable, she was somehow contriving to appear innocent while implying that her intentions were anything but. Her scent alone was intoxicating. Hard hammering had made Benard's hands tremble; her smile could make all of him flap like a flag, and his body was already saluting the view through that web. She sat at ease in the shade; he was being broiled.

"I have no gifts to offer you," he protested.

"Am I so stupid? If I wanted gifts, I wouldn't show you this." She rattled bracelets in a clash of metal. "And I wouldn't come begging from a man who lives in a kennel."

He did want to work on the statue while there was daylight. Nymphs did have a bad reputation for enslaving men and bleeding them of everything they possessed. On the other hand...

The other hand held several good arguments on its sweaty palm, not least of which was that he must eat sometime. He could not hope to hold on to his gold, because wealth was his corban. And he was curious to see her collection of loot.

"I'm not dressed to go visiting."

"I'll undress you when we get there." Teasing.

"No gifts, no god, no talk of love?" he said sadly. "Just rank animal copulation? Like a cat—one yowl and it's over?"

"As rank as you want, master."

"I do not enjoy being treated like an animal."

"You are an animal," she said sweetly, sure of her success now. "All men are."

"I suppose we seem so."

Slaves and swordsman came trotting back, dripping and apparently ready to begin another journey. Thod followed them cautiously.

If gauze could be slammed, Hiddi slammed the drape. "Then follow. Home, Nerio. Benard—heel!"

♦

He took a moment to outline some work for Thod, then sprinted after the chair as it vanished into the alley. He caught up with it just before the first fork. In these narrow ways, he made no effort to join the swordsman out in front. He had not expected to have trouble keeping up with older men so burdened, but Hiddi's slaves were trained to their work and kept up a fiendish pace, charging through crowds and narrow gaps like runaway onagers. The journey was much longer than he expected, uphill to the palace complex and then around to the fashionable side of the city. They stopped eventually at a gate set in an adobe wall. Nerio rang a bell. In a moment the gate was opened.

Winded, Benard staggered in after the slaves, down into a shaded courtyard. Someone handed him a soft towel and a golden goblet of cool water flavored with some astringent fruit.

He drank, wiped, and drank again before he felt able to judge his surroundings. The garden was spacious, running from a dwelling of three or even four rooms at one end to obvious servant quarters at the other, the sides being blank walls clad in vines. The overall effect was exquisite. He had been raised in two palaces and had visited rich folk's homes many times to discuss or carry out commissions, yet he had seen nowhere with more harmony and appeal than this miniature forest. He had stepped down into it from alley level, which meant that it was old, and obviously those massive trees were ancient. Their spacing around the obligatory fishpond blended with flower-spangled shrubs and glazed-tile paving in a perfect union of balance and peace. This haven had been designed and executed by someone with admirable taste.

First impressions curdled as he appraised the painted terra-cotta animals and plaster figurines. Whoever had added those did not know what taste was. Gaudy cushions and low gilt tables were being set out for dining. Half a dozen slaves—all male, all Florengian, a couple of them little more than boys—were laying out meats and fruits and well-shaped loaves. His mouth ached. Rumble...

Swordsman Nerio was likewise engaged in wiping off sweat and red dust, but he was also issuing orders to servants, who ran to carry them out. He noticed Benard's attention on him and wandered in his direction, still breathing hard but clearly amused.

"You are surprised?"

"Who owns this place?"

"Why, the lady Hiddi." Nerio had learned his wide-eyed innocence from her.

"She is married? Or had a rich father?"

The wide-eyed innocence was very close to wide-eyed mockery. "I cannot discuss the lady's affairs, master artist. I am sure you may ask her yourself." He spoke a more citified brand of Vigaelian than Hiddi did, and his smile was almost a smirk, brazenly hinting that he enjoyed his employer's favors.

Hiddi now approached, having descended from her chair still cool and ravishing, and now openly amused by her guest's breathless, sweat-soaked condition. He had never seen woven mist like her dress. There was very little of it to see.

"You approve of my residence?" she inquired, spider to fly.

"It's magnificent, my lady." It had been until she started making it over.

"Only my very special friends get invited here, Benard."

"I am honored."

"It will be a treat for you. My cook is an expert. I always eat off gold plate, of course."

In Benard's experience, gold plate was absurdly impractical stuff, chilling hot food instantly. "I am really impressed."

"I think, though, that you should be rubbed down before being fed your hot mash. Follow me." Hiddi floated toward the house.

He followed, fascinated by the movement of her hips and keeping his hands off her only by great effort. "Your goddess rewards you well."

"Of course She does." She swept into a shadowy chamber where one of the younger slaves was tipping water from a steaming jar into a bath. "That will do, Cosimo. We shan't need more."

The bath was set below floor level, unpractically wide and shallow. The room was luxurious, with glazed tiles on the walls and floor depicting flowers and shrubs full of birds that made the room's dimness burn with brilliant colors. Unfortunately, Hiddi's taste predominated. The effect was hideous enough to hurt Benard's eyes. He could guess the hack artist who had done it; wealthy people heaped gifts on him for creating such monstrosities. Suspecting a trap, he scanned the room carefully for inconspicuous images of holy Eriander, but found none.

The boy padded out on bare feet, sneaking a monumentally inscrutable glance at Benard as he passed.

"You favor Florengians, I see."

"Animals, like all men," Hiddi said, testing the water with a foot no goddess would spurn and no peasant could even imagine. "All slaves, since I can enslave any man I fancy anyway. Of course, I march them through my bedroom all night."

He squirmed at her sarcasm. No woman had ever disconcerted him so much, not even Ingeld. But there was no drawing back now.

"Of course. Six at a time, I presume?"

"Are you going to bathe like that, or undress?"

"I don't need help to wash myself."

"Wash? You never had a woman in a bathtub, Florengian?"

None of her business. "I shall need instruction."

"I'll call for Nerio." The pink gossamer floated down around her feet. Without removing a single jewel, Hiddi stepped into the water and turned to face him. "You only need a moment, don't you? One quick yowl, you said?"

"What I need," Benard said, pulling off his smock, "may be a lot less than what I take."

As it turned out, there were several yowls and a terrible lot of splashing at the end.

♦

Much later, and in another room, Hiddi said, "Sun's setting. I must go and serve my god."

They were sitting on the edge of the sleeping platform. She was running a tortoiseshell comb through her silken hair, and Benard had been mentally rearranging furniture. He still had an arm around her. He wondered where his clothes were.

The platform bore soft mats of red and purple, which clashed with the wall hangings, which fought with the rugs. The room held far too much ill-sorted stuff—chairs, chests, tables, even a grotesque image of Eriander, which he had covered with a drape before joining Hiddi on the sleeping mat to repeat their earlier love-making in the bathtub. The entire house was an artistic junk heap, an obscene misuse of wealth. Her cooks and gardeners were skilled, her house servants well trained and respectful, but the only real beauty in the place was Hiddi herself. Sometime during the afternoon Benard had removed all her assorted jewels, having persuaded her that she was both lovelier and more cuddlesome without them.

He should not be so petty. All his bodily needs had been satisfied without stint. Life bore a rosy glow.

"When can I see you again?" he asked.

Her smile was a purr. "You enjoyed romping with your little Nymph, mm?"

"A day to be remembered always. I trust I gave satisfaction?'

"Indeed you did." He waited for her to bring up the subject of his gold.

But what she said was "You are a true artist! Come and see me any time you like, Benard. I serve the god at night. I'm here all day." She rested her head on his shoulder. "I don't have many friends. I have to sleep sometimes, but I won't mind you waking me. I'll tell Nerio to let you in whenever you want."