Children of Chaos

twenty-four

FABIA CELEBRE

came awake with a start. She had been sleeping soundly, with one hand, as had become her habit, stretched out beyond the edge of her mat to rest on the cold earth. She had been dreaming of darkness and how to make it. She opened her eyes and saw nothing.

The Wrogg was certainly the greatest highway of the Face, writhing in vast loops of reeds and sluggish water across the flat lands, navigable from Lake Skjar almost to its source in the Ice. Prevailing winds blew sunwise in summer and the Wrogg flowed the other way, so the swarming riverboats, which in sum housed more people than any city of Vigaelia, could ride the breezes upstream and rely on the current to bring them back. The riverfolk were almost a race apart, worshiping simple nature gods and speaking their own tonal dialect known as "Wroggian." They shunned villages and towns, preferring to pitch tents on the levees at sunset. Many of them boasted that they had never slept under a roof. At dawn they raised red triangular sails and moved on.

Fabia was in her personal leather tent, so tiny that she could not sit up in it. She could not have been asleep long, for the riverfolk were still singing, celebrating a chance reunion with friends they had not seen in years and might not meet again for many more. She was used to that by now. What had awakened her?

Came a whisper, "Fabia Celebre!"

Ah! She nodded.

"I am Mist." The voice came from outside and at her level, as if the speaker were lying on the grass to evade the guards' notice.

Wide awake now, Fabia rolled over on her side. "It is about time! Why have I heard nothing from you until now? It's ages since we—"

"Not so loud. When did you expect to hear from us? The nights you spent in the palace next door to its mistress? During the voyage across the lake, when you were hung over the rail like bright green laundry? Or perhaps at Yormoth, where you shared a room with the Queen of Shadows? Or since then, while you've been guarded by a dozen Werists and never a stone's throw away from her? Are you not worried that she may keep watch on you in her own dark ways? You think it is easy for us to come at you unobserved?"

"Sorry." Tolerating mockery was a skill Fabia had only recently acquired, although this soft-spoken teasing was easier to take than the Werists' vulgarities. "Is tonight different?"

"Slightly less lethal. Saltaja has withdrawn downstream to bathe, and the Werists are still distracted. But we must be quick."

The Werists had been distracted for several nights now, because a boatload of Nymphs had been tracking the flotilla, camping nearby and offering participation in their strange worship. Eager though his men were to oblige them, Huntleader Perag saw to it that the captives were never left unguarded.

"Can you smuggle Horth and me away?"

"Why? Where to?"

"But we'll be in Kosord any day now and I cannot sleep for nightmares of being married to one of those brutes."

"Your snores were louder than a hungry onager," the seer said dryly. "So you spurn the honor that the children of Hrag offer you, marriage to one of their own? Are you still of the same mind you were in the Pantheon?"

"I am opposed to Saltaja and her brood, but what can I accomplish against the Queen of Shadows?"

"More than you may think, child." Surely that soft, wry voice was familiar? "You are a seasoner."

"Born to greatness?"

"Only if you admit both good and evil greatness—Stralg and Saltaja both have seasoning in abundance. And it cannot shield you against ill chance. You may still die young and unfulfilled. Again I ask: Are you still on our side?"

"I think so. I am on my side, and my brothers', and Horth's, and my true parents'..."

The seer chuckled. "Spoken like a Chosen. No, do not protest. I speculate, merely. Chthonians do look after their own. So, Fabia, my ally, I tell you that Light-of-your-heart Cutrath has left Kosord, heading for Tryfors and the Edge. No wedding trumpets will sound for you in Kosord."

Fabia breathed a very long sigh of contentment. "Thank you!"

"Be very careful with this wisdom. Saltaja does not know yet. She is without news. Several boats bearing dispatches to her have passed you on the river. For that we must thank the disaster in Skjar, because the satrap could not leave with his city half ruined, and without him she cannot command the Witnesses."

"How can you possibly know—"

"I must go," the seer said. "She is coming back. You will find Satrap Horold's wife a fine lady who understands what forced marriage to a Werist means. Keep cultivating Flankleader Cnurg. I also have news for Horth Wigson. Tell him that he may find old friends in Kosord at the Jade Bowl. But again—be careful!"

"Wait! What happens when we find my beloved is flown? And tell me about my brothers."

"What has Saltaja told you of them?"

"Nothing that seems helpful. The youngest is a Werist in Tryfors, the middle one an artist in Kosord, and the oldest dead."

"Close. Orlando is still a cadet, but near the end of his training. He is said to be formidable, so he could aid your cause considerably if he chose; but he is unfailingly loyal and thus much more likely to betray you to his lord. Benard is a Hand. You have met some of those?"

"Many. Practical as a wax ax?"

The seer chuckled. "But a beautiful wax ax! Twelve blessings—"

"Wait! Who killed Paola Apicella—Perag Hrothgatson?"

There was a pause. "Where did you learn that?"

In a nightmare. Soon after Yormoth, Fabia had started praying for enlightenment about the murder. At first her petition had been refused, but she had persisted, and a few nights later had been shown the start of the attack—her mother walking home with her swordsman escort, shapes leaping from the shadows. Fabia's own screams had awakened her before she saw any more, and had roused the entire camp as well. Ever since then, the young Werists had been generous with advice about what would help her sleep better and offers to provide it. But in those few ghastly moments she had heard Perag Hrothgatson's voice directing the assault.

"Horth suspects," she said, knowing the seer would detect the equivocation. "So it is true?"

"Perag was in charge. Now I must—"

"No, wait! I know your voice. It was you who accosted me in the Pantheon."

"Well done," the seer said, without sounding pleased.

"But not the Witness who testified to Saltaja that I had made my vows."

"Did she speak untruth?"

Fabia cursed herself for stupidity, trying to match wits with a seer. Should she answer yes or no?

"I was in Skjar that day," the voice went on, "and I saw you take your vows, Fabia Celebre. It is true that the disastrous storm was overloading us, but the eyes of Mayn do not see as your eyes do. We see truth and my sisters and I saw you take your vows. What you said, where, and with whose help were not revealed to us. You may have been in the house of the Bright Ones or below it in the realm of the Mother. Few of my sisters would agree with me, I admit, but I personally do not care if you gave a lily to Veslih or spilled blood to the Old One, just as long as you oppose the vile Saltaja. If you are now a Chosen and she discovers this, she may destroy you or try to enlist you. I do not pretend to read anyone's thoughts, let alone hers. May whatever gods you serve guide you through perils to come, Fabia Celebre."

"Wait! What happens when I reach Kosord?"

There was no reply.

♦

At first light Fabia dressed hastily, hoping for a private word with Horth, but Flankleader Cnurg was asleep across her tent door as usual, and came instantly alert, like a watchdog. She nodded sourly and walked around him. The levee swarmed with Werists in various stages of nudity as they turned their palls from bedclothes into day wear.

Horth was already kneeling in the crowd around the fire, participating in the group's usual hasty breakfast. Strangely, the endless boredom of the river seemed to agree with him; he had gained an appetite and lost his painful leanness. He was being idle for the first time in his life.

The party numbered fifty-three. Fabia and Horth had brought no servants and Saltaja only a single handmaid, the moronic Guitha, but the Queen of Shadows had not skimped on guards—Huntleader Hrothgatson led a pack of young Werists on their way to join Stralg's horde in Florengia. They were more jailors than protectors, of course. Cnurg, flankleader of the center, was Fabia's shadow, and Ern, his counterpart of the rear, kept equally close watch on Horth. The rest were never far away.

They traveled in a convoy of five boats: Blue Ibis, Mora, Redwing, Beloved of Hrada, and Nurtgata. The sixty or so men, women, and children who crewed these vessels lived in complicated, ever-changing relationships never explained to passengers. New faces might appear overnight and others vanish. People changed vessels from day to day, just for variety in company, and Fabia was certain they exchanged sleeping partners as readily—argument and bad feeling would build toward explosion and then suddenly vanish, leaving new smiling pairings and new scowls of jealousy.

With so many people striking camp, attending to toilet, and snacking on leftovers from the evening meal, the dawn departure was predictable confusion. She found herself a safe haven between a smoldering fire and a heap of bales and there, where she would not likely be stepped on, hunkered down to chew a crust and shiver herself properly awake. She laid her free hand on the cold earth of the levee and registered the power of the Old One.

Perag was strutting around, being objectionable. The huntleader was a foulmouthed bully, detested even by his own men. No doubt Fabia's nightmare of him murdering Paola had been sent by the Dark One, but the Mother of Lies had not lied in that instance, because a Witness had now confirmed his guilt It was time to bring the murderer to justice, lest he vanish out of Fabia's reach when they reached Kosord. Ever since Yormoth she had been requesting and receiving instruction from the Dark One and now she had dreamed everything she needed.

Saltaja had not yet emerged from her pavilion. There was time, but it must be done before they left land and Fabia lost contact with the Mother.

First Fabia must create a darkness to shield herself from notice. Dearest mistress, You must sometimes cloak Your children and obscure the sight of others. Do so now, I pray You, and protect Your servant. Thinking veil, she wove strands of obscurity around herself. This was her newest skill, but she felt confident that she was using it correctly. The sparkle of light on the river dimmed, and even the chattering voices seemed to fade as if muffled by fog.

Now the hex. She had never seen snow in her life that she could remember, but she had heard tell of it, and in her dreams she had been standing in a field of malice like black snow. Gathering up a handful, she began small: One for spitefulness and maltreating the men you command. Then she squeezed a second handful into the first to make a black snowball: Two for disrupting my dedication party. Three for forcing your foul kisses on me that day. And so on. For twice abducting and humiliating Horth Wigson. Finally much larger handfuls for the despicable assault on Paola Apicella. By then Fabia had amassed a seething mass of hatred. It felt adequate, but if nothing happened in a few days, she could try a stronger hex. By blood and birth; death and the cold earth, she mentally threw the malice at Perag. There were no visible results at all, which was as it should be. She dissolved her veils of darkness.

Saltaja had emerged with Guitha and her tent was already being dismantled. It was time to embark. All that Fabia had left to do to complete her hex was the lie: Instruct them, my lady, that if I were truly one of Your Chosen, I would not dare strike at him so blatantly in front of another chthonian who is my foe and has vastly greater experience and knowledge of Your ways. Convince them all that Perag's misfortunes must be pure chance, a sending from holy Cienu, and nothing to do with me. Amen.

♦

The passengers followed the riverfolk custom of shifting from boat to boat, and that morning Fabia scrambled down the bank to embark in Ibis, closely followed by Cnurg and another eight Werists, mostly from right flank. Generally the riverfolk kept to the stern, leaving the area between the two masts for baggage and cargo, reserving the bow and its seating for passengers. She took her favorite place at the end of the starboard shelf, where she could lean back against the side and watch what the sailors were up to. Cnurg sat close to her, inevitably. Most of the Werists shunned the benches and perched on various barrels and crates they had collected. Two remained standing as punishment for some minor offense, their haggard expressions suggesting that they had been on their feet most of the night. The last to board were Perag and Saltaja, who took the bench opposite. Fabia smiled a welcome, mentally consigning the day to a dunghill.

"Twelve blessings on you, my lady. And on you, Packleader."

Saltaja inclined her head in imperious acknowledgment. However evil, she was at least courteous. The Werist just scowled at the mockery. Although he now commanded only a pack of four flanks, he still wore a huntleader's green sash; everyone but Fabia still granted him his former rank.

The moment the lines were cast off, the riverfolk began squabbling. Fabia watched with amusement, unable to understand their curious twanging speech, but reading their gestures and emotions easily enough. Evidently some of the male sailors had been helping Nymphs worship Eriander in the night, so the women were threatening to start offering favors to Werists. The brighter Werists caught on and called out promises of cooperation until Perag barked at them to stay out of it. The argument spread wider when Hrada came near enough for shouted exchanges.

The Wrogg was not as huge here as it had been at Yormoth, and boats swarmed on it like midges, tacking back and forth in complex dance. The vessels were long, lean, and open, offering no shade from a sun much fiercer than Skjar ever knew.

Fabia's childhood ambition to explore all Vigaelia now lay in ruins. So far she had found travel hideously boring. Although many towns and villages lay along the great river, all she ever saw from the boats were the levees, for they were high enough to cut off her view of anything else. The coastal ranges had dwindled until they were lost behind the wall of the world. Some days she managed to organize sing-alongs or, rarely, conversations that did not consist entirely of Werists bragging about their toughness, but neither was ever possible when sourpuss Perag was present.

So she watched the flights of birds, waved to passing boats, and puzzled over her visitor in the night The seer had not told her what would happen in Kosord. Nothing, probably. She would just be dragged on upriver until she overtook the unwanted Cutrath Horoldson. If the Witnesses had any plan at all, it probably required the flavorful Fabia to return to Celebre, with marriage an unfortunate but necessary formality to get her there.

"Did you pay your respects to the god in the night?" she asked Cnurg. That gangling, freckled redhead was a year or two older than most of the others and showed signs of growing out of the brutalization so obvious in the other Werists. Some of them were easy to look at, if not to listen to, and she could feel sorry for all of them at times. They had been ensnared as children by promises of glory and manhood, and now found themselves being rushed into an insatiable war that took no prisoners. Their youth was an advantage, they assured her—young Werists were the most deadly. She did not ask how many of them were likely to survive their first year in Florengia.

Cnurg smiled toothily. "Not god, my lady! Goddess! Yes, I gave Her an outstanding offering."

"Outstanding?" exclaimed Brarag, who had his back to Perag. "Did you not hear the Nymphs laughing when they saw it?"

"On your feet, warriors!" Perag barked. "Both of you!"

Cnurg and Brarag snapped upright and chorused, "My lord is kind!"

He left them standing there. He was crazy.

Fabia fumed for a moment and then let rip. "Pray inform me, Packleader, just how your men offended?"

"Mind your own business, slut."

"Are you afraid a foolish joke will rot their fighting mettle, or do you think my smile will seduce them from their duty? Is your pettiness so deep that you cannot bear to think of men not being in mortal terror of you every second? Or are you just peevish because you did not sleep well last night?"

Perag glared at her, flushing. She could sense all the other Werists holding their breath. The huntleader clenched his fist and began to rise. Saltaja laid a black-draped hand on his arm.

"Leave her to her future husband to discipline!" she commanded resonantly. "And you, Fabia? You slept well last night?" Assuming she did not know about the seer, the woman's instincts were incredible.

"Indeed I did, my lady." Fabia spoke with a sweetness she was far from feeling. "And yourself?"

"I sleep very little."

That closed the conversation. Perag stayed on his keg, scowling at the prisoner. If he were forbidden to beat her, he would just take out his spite on his men.

Almost nothing was known about the children of Hrag prior to Stralg's baleful rise, but Saltaja was reputed to be the eldest. It needed no master tallyman to calculate that she must be almost sixty, yet there was barely a line to be seen on that elongated, bloodless face; perhaps her agelessness had started the rumors that she was a Chosen. Her only concession to travel was a broad-brimmed black hat and apparently infinite patience. She seemed to have bewitched Perag. His men were convinced that he yearned to be invited into her tent, and they attributed his persistent bad temper to a lack of success. No one wept for him.

♦

Thinking again about her visitor in the night, Fabia realized that the seer had spoken as if she had personal experience of the voyage so far. Indeed, she was almost certainly one of the riverfolk in the convoy, because she had been present in Skjar not long before Fabia left, and no one could have journeyed any faster upriver than Saltaja had. The Witness must be disguised as a sailor!

But which? Fabia ran through the boat crews in her mind without success. There were more than a dozen adult women in the flotilla, but the singsong dialect disguised voices, and they spent most of their days just sitting and talking, sheltered from the sun and wind inside voluminous burnooses. Although they might strip down to very little when there was work to be done, they owned a half-dozen slaves—all Florengian prisoners of war, who scowled at Fabia from shame or resentment and avoided her—who attended to most of the hard labor. Yet even the slaves seemed healthy and well nourished. Better by far the placid river life than the grinding drudgery of a peasant.

♦

The day dragged on. One could count boats, or clouds. At the stern one could trail lines to catch supper. One could wait for the hex to start producing results.

♦

Around noon, the riverfolk would rummage through the cargo and hand out snacks of fruit, cheese, pickled fish, or whatever they had traded recently. In his usual boorish fashion, Perag went first, pushing aside hungry children. Moments later he screamed.

Wild shouts of "Jumper!" roused everyone and for a few minutes Blue Ibis was a scene of chaos. Fabia had never heard of jumpers, which were apparently tiny but greatly feared spiders native to the flat lands. One must have come aboard with one of the tents, or perhaps the basket of roots... When the jumper had been hunted down and hammered into a small black stain, everyone could relax again. Except Perag.

He was thrashing on the deck boards, moaning in agony. Already his left arm was twice the size of the other and turning purple. His face was distorted—eyes bulging, lips everted, grossly swollen tongue protruding. Several of the Werists were shouting "Change!" at him, but he either could not hear or just could not change. He clawed a few times at his brass collar as if it were choking him. He did seem to be conscious, though.

"This is horrible!" Fabia said. She had gone to sit by Saltaja. "I can't pretend to like the man, but no one deserves to suffer so. Surely there must be a sanctuary we could take him to?"

The Queen of Shadows was watching her henchman's convulsions with the disapproval due a display of bad manners. "Sinurists will never treat Werists," she intoned. "If he could change form, he might be able to shake off the poison, but it would seem that he is unable to call on his god to help him."

"Perhaps we should pray for him."

"Perhaps we should," Saltaja agreed.

Fabia prayed: Mother of Death, do not release him yet. Make him suffer enough!

Eventually Cnurg took charge and ordered Perag trussed to restrain his convulsions; it took six men just to do that. The riverfolk shrugged and recommended keeping him doused to cool the fever. When his screams became too oppressive, Cnurg gagged him.

Flankleader Era in Redwing, on being informed of the calamity, assumed command and suspended all punishments.

No one spared Fabia a single suspicious glance.

♦

Late that day, for the third time on the journey, the convoy saw a sun wife, a bloated patch of brilliance some distance below the sun and equally impossible to look upon. Horth had explained to Fabia that sun wives were merely sunlight reflecting on the dome of Ocean, which was so far away now that it was lost in the blue of the sky. A sun wife needed only the right angle and unusually clear weather to form, he said.

But the riverfolk regarded sun wives as blessings from their gods, so they chanted a hymn of thanksgiving; the Werists countered with a paean to Weru, and one song led to another. Blue Ibis finished the day's journey with a rousing general singsong.