Children of Chaos

thirty

HOROLD HRAGSON

had known some bad experiences in his life, the worst being a rebel ambush outside Jazkra, when he was jumped by four warbeasts at once. It had happened soon after the twins' death, when he was less alert than usual, and by the time his host rallied to him, he had killed one of his assailants and the other three had killed him—or so his men thought. He had needed most of a day in battleform to heal and had failed to retroform properly. He had never looked in a mirror since.

His second worst experience, and also the third, fourth, and continuing on as high as he could count, had involved his sister Saltaja. He had no memory of his parents, or any ruling force in his life besides Saltaja. Terrible as Weru, she never made a threat she would not carry out. Nor had age softened her. Nay, it had not even dared touch her, for she was unchanged from his earliest memories. He had heard the rumors that she was his mother, not his sister, and did not believe them. Therek, the eldest, was not so sure, but you could never believe much of what Therek said. That she was a Chosen seemed very believable, but in sixty lifetimes Horold would never dare ask her.

Mother or not, she had always been able to cow him when she wanted to, and she was in a cowing mood that day. A daylight nightmare in her black robes, she led the way into his private courtyard, sat on the marble wall enclosing the fishpond, and began questioning him relentlessly on recruitment of reinforcements for Stralg. Forewarned of her arrival by Ingeld, Horold had ordered his tallymen to have answers ready for the sort of questions Saltaja usually asked, and had even made some effort to memorize a few responses, though numbers had never been his strong point. This time she ignored crops, taxes, and plagues, concentrating instead on how many recruits had passed through Kosord on their way upriver. How was he supposed to know that? They rarely even came to the palace. They'd storm the temple of Eriander and be on their way by dawn.

He summoned the tallymen and their baskets of tablets—and Saltaja tangled all of them in knots. Later, when the minions had been sent away and there were just the two of them again, she delivered the Truth as she saw it.

"At least six sixty have deserted in the last year. That's the least it can be. The real loss must be much worse."

"There's always some wastage in training," he protested. "We run them down and make examples of them."

She gave him a look he recalled from his childhood. "I am talking of initiates, not boys! Have they found some way to shed their collars and live? If not, then where are they going?"

"Probably mostly nowhere. Any governor likes to collect a larger host than he'll admit to."

"You were smarter when you still had your milk teeth. Listen and we'll try again. Either eleven-twelfths of the governors are suddenly holding back far more men than usual—which means there is a Face-wide rebellion brewing—or else about twenty-five out of every sixty recruits heading for Tryfors disappear on the way there. Or both," she added, frowning. "The leak seems to be upstream from here."

"They're recruiting trash, that's the trouble."

"They always did. But the loss in senior men is greater than it is in the youngsters. Why do you think I arrived with an escort of wet-eared boys?"

"You were frightened the older ones might gang up on you and mutiny on the way here!"

"Was that a flash of lightning I just saw? Yes. But I want a really senior man to escort me to Tryfors and back—one with a family here, so he won't be tempted to desert. Call your seer."

The satrap obediently rose and went like a page to pass the word. He was intrigued by the thought of a boatload of Werists trying to throw Saltaja overboard—which side would he bet on? If he was Cutrath, sailing off to join the Florengian slaughter, he would certainly be tempted to desert, but the lad ought to be fairly safe playing tyrant in Celebre, married to that curvy little piece, Whatshername.

A Witness came waddling into the courtyard like an ambulatory bolster. He knew this fat one. She had been around for a couple of years, and Horold normally hated to see her answer his summons, because getting information out of her was like getting eggs from a gander. He wondered if the Queen of Shadows would fare any better with her. Saltaja began snarling questions; his part was just to tell the woman to answer each time.

Even with Saltaja asking the questions, the fat seer got away with giving very few firm answers. If recruits were absconding, it was happening nowhere near Kosord.

"Where is Horth Wigson?" Saltaja demanded at last.

"Who? Er, answer the question."

"Horth Wigson is Fabia Celebre's foster father. He is not presently visible to my sight."

"And Fabia Celebre?"

"Answer."

"She is in the Hall of Hawks in the company of her brother."

"Go!" Saltaja snapped and the seer obeyed in silence.

"Almost sunset!" Horold tried not to sound relieved. "Have to go host the feast."

"Wait. The brother?" Saltaja said. "Could he rule a city?"

Horold's bellow of laughter probably startled the fish. "Benard? He'd start by tearing it down so he could remake it better. He's a Hand!"

"Would he take orders?"

"He never has before. If he hears them at all he just forgets them. Er, you don't need him as a hostage anymore now, do you?"

Saltaja gave him a long, steady stare. "Why do you dislike him so much?"

"Personal reasons." If she snooped around the palace, she would hear about Cutrath, not the bedroom problem.

"I see. Come here."

A stab of inexplicable terror raised his all-over fur. "Why?" he demanded, rising. Why was he so frightened? She was only a bossy old woman; he could break her neck with one hand if he wanted. Why did she arouse such panic in him that his knees shook? Just vague memories of childhood? Or that day in Jat-Nogul? Was that all? Why was he obeying her, edging closer, dragging his feet, shivering like a terrified child? Why didn't he just tell her to go to the Dark One and stay there?

♦

Gods! Horold started upright on his chair. He must have dropped off. The sun had set already. Where had the day gone?

Saltaja was already at the door. "Do what you like with the artist then, but wait until the girl and I have left."

At last! Horold smiled contentedly, cherishing visions of Benard in a soundproof dungeon, just the two of them. "You sure you won't attend the feast?" he asked unhopefully.

His sister just shook her head. Her taste ran to intimate Skjaran dinner parties with endless, pointless, incomprehensible conversations, not jolly Kosordian-style feasts that faded off into orgies on the edges. As soon as she had gone, he bellowed for a jug of mead.

Having drained that, he felt even better. Get the feast out of the way and then dismember Benard Celebre! Something to look forward to very much. He donned a fresh, well-scented pall and strode off to see if the procession from the temple had arrived yet.

♦

The feast began in the lowermost courts, with more praise for holy Ucr and appeals to holy Cienu to bless the festivities. Street level was where most people remained, with standing room only and hasty grabbing at whatever went by. Citizens of substance, who had been sent festive wreaths, were allowed up to middle-rank halls featuring benches at long tables. There the food was still cold, but the beer was drinkable. The real elite, those given both wreaths and robes, could progress on up to royal levels, and there recline on couches, nibble delicacies, and quaff wine while dancers writhed and musicians twanged and chirped. Because the harvest feast of Ucr lasted four days, the upper halls also featured dimly lit side rooms where senior guests could seek holy Nula's gift of sleep to restore their strength. Holy Eriander was worshiped there also.

Horold began at the top, where he ran into the Celebre girl, a sight to warm the cockles of any man's loins. Lucky Cutrath! Surely even that sorry excuse for a warrior should manage to breed some bulls on this buxom heifer?

"You are enjoying yourself, daughter?"

"Indeed I am, my lord. This is not like feasts in Skjar."

"I hope not. Keep her in the well-lit rooms!" he told her escort. "Mustn't have any gossip."

Her escort was, of course, the cesspool artist, Benard. Horold gave him a big smile. "You see you enjoy yourself, too, boy." Then it will be my turn.

♦

Eventually his progress through the halls and courts brought him to the lowest levels, where he discovered his wife, wearing what he always thought of as her bonfire costume. She was surrounded by doting throngs, of course. As always. Kosord would have been a much harder place for him to rule without the support of its hereditary dynast, and twenty-five years ago it had looked close to impossible. Stralg had been planning a major massacre to bring it to heel—he had estimated a quarter of the population—but once Ingeld consented, the people had followed her lead. She had been a beauty then and was still lustable enough, although no one could know it when she was packaged in that absurd outfit. Horold wandered in her direction, and his presence swiftly thinned out the crowd of admirers.

"Come, wife. You have wasted enough time here. There are more important people to greet."

She agreed with little enthusiasm. "I must go, friends. I shall return later. Please do enjoy yourselves ... Lead on, my lord."

As they headed up the corridor together, she said, "You didn't used to be such a boor. The rich you can control easily enough, you know. If the poor ever rise, though, then you will fall."

"Over their dead bodies."

She looked up at him for a moment. Once her head had been level with his shoulder; now it was closer to his elbow. "It's hard to tell now, but... You drink a lot, don't you?"

"There's a lot of me to satisfy."

"Not tonight!" she said sharply. "We have guests, at least sixty-sixty guests."

He chuckled. "Every night I said, and every night I meant. I have last night to make up for, too."

"You spurned me for years. Why the sudden rush?"

"Because I have a lot of catching up to do." He had believed all the stories of battle-hardened Werists killing their women by fathering monsters on them, but there was nothing wrong with the slave girl's whelp. She'd carried it a few thirties too long, was all. That error could be avoided next time.

"I can't oblige you in this dress."

"You won't wear that until dawn. You never do."

She sighed, and her fingers moved on his arm. "Very well. When I go to my room to change, I'll send word."

Aha! This was starting to sound more like the old days. "Getting back in practice, mm?" He'd known she'd soon start enjoying it again.