Children of Chaos

On his own he was sometimes good company.

Benard bowed. 'Yes, lord.'

'Show us your picture. These ignorant brutes need some culture.'

The cadets scowled at his humor but wisely said nothing. Benard cleared a corner of the table and laid down the slab, which was blank. 'I haven't drawn it yet.'

'Glad to hear that. Thought I was going blind.' The flankleader tried a suck on his straw and pulled a face. He handed the beaker to a cadet, who took it over to the corner to ladle more beer from the krater. 'And a new straw!' Even Guthlag could never drink beer straight from the jar, with all its husks, gritty dregs, and yeasty scum.

Benard went to the hearth and fumbled among the cold ashes until he found a few pieces of charcoal. He came back and studied the wood, while silently reciting the invocation.

'You watch this, now,' Guthlag mumbled toothlessly. 'If you want t'see the blessing of a god at work.'

'Goddess!' corrected the largest cadet. 'What sort of man would swear to a female god?'

Benard did not hear more. He was reaching back to the day he first came to Kosord—he had been only eight, but visual memory was part of his lady's blessing. He had been very ill, too, not yet recovered from the hardship of the Edgelands, where he and Orlando had almost died, despite the best efforts of poor Dantio being both father and mother to them. They had descended onto bleak and bitter moors near Tryfors. Orlando had been detained there, screaming piteously. Benard had been brought to the court of Satrap Horold, Dantio taken farther downstream to a fate untold.

But it was not his lost family Benard wanted. Nor yet Ingeld, who had mothered him back to life. He struggled to define the other image, and gradually it took shape as if emerging from a white mist of years. He sent his rogation to holy Anziel and felt Her blessing quicken his fingers—fast strokes to define the hard edge of nose and ear and teeth, softer for the rounded edges of cheekbones and neck. Fingertips to smear the shading ... fainter swirls for the flowing blond curls. Darkest of all the brass collar, and then it was done, a three-quarter profile of a man of about thirty, arrogantly aware of his looks. Unlike most Werists, he was clean-shaven and wore his hair long. The sketch even caught the glint of eyes that in life had been a fierce and most brilliant blue. His nose had been curved, then—not the pruning hook of his brother the bloodlord, but a strong, masculine nose. His teeth had been perfect, which was rare.

'Blood!' Guthlag muttered. 'Blood and torment! I'd forgot.'

'What's a pretty-boy namby doing wearing a Werist collar?' demanded one of the cadets.

'Is that supposed to be a joke?' snarled another.

'Blood!' Guthlag roared. 'Stupid slugs!'

All three jerked to attention and parroted 'My lord is kind!' in unison.

'Don't you know him?'

One by one they recognized the likeness and muttered oaths. The man Benard had recalled was not the creature who had been whirling around his satrapy in a chariot last sixday, celebrating his youngest son's initiation. Perhaps these three apprentice monsters had not fully appreciated what battle hardening could do—and would eventually do to them if they fought enough. This was the first summer Benard could remember when Horold had not been away campaigning. Werists could survive incredible wounds, but every healing left them less and less human. This was their corban.

'He really look like that?'

'That he did,' Guthlag snarled. 'What'ch goin' do with that, boy?'

'Show it to him,' Benard said. 'It's an excuse to ask a favor, is all.'

'You're out of your mind!'

'Why?'

The flankleader shook his head in disbelief. 'You think he wants to be reminded?'

Benard thought about it. 'Why not?'

The old Werist growled low in his throat, like a true watchdog. 'Better you than me, lad. And in court?'

'Court? Today?' If the satrap would be holding assize and giving audience, Benard must catch him first, or there would be no chance of a private chat before Cutrath found him.

In the distance, horns blew.

'Oh, gods!' Benard grabbed up his sketch and raced out the door.

¦

The great court of the palace was pentagonal, with a covered balcony all around and a center open to the heavens. The walls were formed of panels of brightly glazed tiles depicting people and gods in red, black, white, and green, separated by massive steles inscribed with the laws of holy Demern. Benard had once been friendly with a member of the scribes' guild who had tried to explain to him all the complications of writing: signs that stood for names, signs that meant grammatical elements, signs that meant sounds, and signs indicating how to interpret other signs. It had given him terrible headaches. Add to that, the oldest tongue was so obscure that the meaning of the written law could be deciphered only by Speakers of Demern, who knew it all by divine inspiration anyway.

Until the coming of Stralg, Kosord had been ruled by the consort of the hereditary dynast, who was always a pyromancer—a Daughter of Veslih. The state consort had always been chosen from among the Speakers of Demern, but Horold had banished the cult from his satrapy because a Speaker would automatically denounce him as a usurper. Consequently, although only Speakers were supposed to make legal rulings, Horold acted as his own judge, holding an assize every first-day he was in the city. After distributing justice, he would receive petitions— merchants seeking contracts, landowners wanting to register titles, citizens with disputes to be arbitrated, officeholders aspiring to promotion, and a swarm of miscellanies—until his patience ran out. Humble folk might return every sixday for half a year before he found time to hear their pleas.

Benard reached the door as the second horn call was sounded, meaning the satrap was on his way. With the