Children of Chaos

Exhilaration!

'What village is that ahead?' She had to shout very loud.

Verk yelled back, 'Bitterfeld, mistress. A very forgettable place.'

There were few things more enjoyable in life than driving a pair of strong young onagers on a fine morning and letting the wind blow your hair around—assuming you had hair suitable for the purpose—but it was not the best situation for conversation. On a smooth track, yes, but there was no real track at all through these hills. Travel was very educational.

Her companion was Verk, her father's senior guard. His big hand grasped the rail without a single white knuckle and he held himself rock-steady with no visible effort except the rhythmic flexing of the muscle in his forearm.

'Tell her she's driving too fast!' Uls howled from the other chariot, close behind. If he remained farther back, he would not have to breathe Frena's dust, but Uls was not the sharpest sword in Skjar and he invariably stayed closer to Verk than his shadow. The brothers were so alike that nobody could tell them apart—as long as neither spoke. After that it was easy.

'Am I driving too fast?' she said.

'Dark and Night are enjoying the run,' Verk said. 'If you do not let them get overheated, they will come to no harm.'

He was being tactful, because Frena had no practical way of reducing speed at the moment. Pulling back on the reins would frighten the onagers and hurt their mouths. She lacked the strength to do any good with the brake lever and would certainly not ask Verk for help. But Dark and Night were as sure-footed as ibexes, and the car had been specially made for her by the best wheelwright in Skjar.

Here the stony hills opened up to cup a valley, bottomed with scabby grain fields. She did not know this road at all. She usually traveled by the north trail, but Father's letter had said to come the south way, without saying why.

'Bitterfeld?' she said. 'Father owns this land!' She had heard the name on the tribute list. 'They are late planting.' She should stop and talk with the headman. It never hurt to let them know that Horth Wigson was watching.

'The rains are late,' Verk said.

She did not know Verk well. As chief household guard, he spent most of his time close to Father, but he was a pleasant companion, well-spoken and good-looking. Father had hired the twins not long before she left for Kyrn, to spend the summer in the hills as all sensible rich folk did.

The chariot was a tight fit for two people and necessarily intimate. Verk's long braids hung below his bronze helmet, jiggling and dancing as the car bounced, and the wind rippled the golden fuzz on his arms. His armor was a knee-length leather smock coated with bronze scales, the hot sun making it reek of the dozens of house guards who had worn it before him. That was not his fault, but it was another reminder of proximity. His free hand was supposedly steadying his scabbard against his thigh, but every few bounces Frena would be thrown against that arm, like it or not, and her wrap was sleeveless also—skin against skin.

Fortunately Frena always kept her emotions under tight control. She had no romantic interest in a mere swordsman, a slab of a man who would risk his life for the chance to live and eat in a mansion. Verk was intelligent enough to share a little mild flirting without getting illusions.

He glanced down at her with a gleam in his unusually dark blue eyes. 'If you do lose a wheel or snap the axle, mistress, please make sure you break my neck as well as your own.'

'You are feeling suicidal? Angry husbands after you?'

'Husbands never frighten me, but an angry employer would.'

'My father is a gentle, loving person, and extremely generous to his staff.'

'Aee! That's true, mistress, but they do say he's mean when his servants skimp their duty.'

'That's not true. Give me one example! Just one!'

'Quera.'

'Who?' Frena said uncertainly.

'Quera. He had her impaled, they do say.'

'No! You've been listening to slander. Who says that? That horrible Master Pukar, I'll bet!'

Verk shrugged his bronze-clad shoulders, not looking at her. Not smiling.

'You weren't there and I was!' Frena said icily. 'I was only thirteen, but I saw! That awful woman was brought in to be Mother's night nurse when she was injured. When Mother died, Father could have beaten her and then dismissed her, or he could have had her charged with negligence. He didn't do either. He threw her out in the street with his own hands. I saw it! She deserved much worse than that, but even a court would not have impaled her. Impaling is only for really terrible crimes.'

'Aee! Gold clinks louder than thunder, they do say.'

'That is treason! And blasphemy! Judges in Skjar are all Speakers of Demern. Witnesses of Mayn give testimony. You accuse initiates of those holy cults of accepting my father's bribes? Of being intimidated by him?'

'Who won't march to the beat of the golden drum?'

This was subversive talk, going beyond informal chat. No servant should speak of his employer like that. 'If my father wins a judgment it is because he is in the right.'

'Ah, I meant no affront to the master, dear lady! Forgive a poor swordsman's folly. Any man who wears a sword in Werist country is born stupid.'

'Tell her to slow down!' Uls yelled again. He was falling farther behind, still enveloped in the red clouds raised