courtyard so crowded, his chances of receiving a hearing today were remote, and his quarrel with Cutrath could not be presented in public anyway. However, this was the last place Cutrath would think of looking for him, and not even he would dare to commit murder here.
Benard stepped boldly up to the scribes at their high desk to give his name and rank and show his seal. He knew most of the people around the palace, but the chief scribe was new since his day. He was portly, sumptuously robed, piggy head shaved hairless. He waited expectantly, mawkish professional smile slowly fading toward contempt.
'Er...' Benard said. No one would ever be allowed to see the satrap without offering a bribe or two, and he had nothing to offer. 'Um. A sketch of your beautiful children? Or your lovely wife?'
A couple of the lesser flunkies were seized by coughing fits. The fat man scowled and colored. 'I hardly think so,' he said in a shrill soprano. 'Wait upstairs.'
Benard scurried off, shuddering at his own clumsiness. How could he have been so inept as not to see that? Obviously the gods would die of old age before his name was called now. Tonight he would ask Ingeld to arrange a private audience. Up in the balcony, he located an unoccupied pillar, leaned plank and self against it, and prepared to endure the rest of the day. His hangover deserved to be set in glazed bricks, immortalized in the chronicles of Vigaelia.
As the final blare of horns died in echoes, priests in garishly tinted robes trooped in, chanting psalms. Benard could participate in public rituals like this, which were very different from the carnal sacrifice Hiddi had expected in the temple of Eriander. Even now the slightest thought of Hiddi was enough to send quivers through his groin. He wondered hopefully if he might have been too strict in his interpretation of the rules and made a note to ask Odok, who was head of his lodge and the light of Anziel on Kosord.
Dusky male Florengians, prisoners of war with the cropped ears of slaves, were carrying in baskets of tablets, placing them behind the throne. The pyromancer who brought in the sacred flame was another Florengian, a hostage named Sansya, a few years younger than Benard. He recalled her as a terrified child, arriving at court very shortly before he went off to Odok; now she was a striking young woman, drawing every man's eyes. In Benard's opinion, the flame-colored robes suited her nut-brown skin better than it did the Vigaelians' pink. The jet hair he remembered had turned a rich auburn, but that was a result of her initiation into the Daughters of Veslih. If Ingeld had chosen to stay away and delegate today's augury to a deputy, then no important business was scheduled.
The priests fell silent. Sansya had stopped at the hearth, where logs of fragrant honeywood were stacked ready. She spoke the invocation to Veslih, then knelt to tip the coals from her firepan onto the pyre. Flame and oily smoke spouted up so suddenly that she recoiled and almost overbalanced. A universal wail of surprise dwindled into a worried buzz.
The outburst was fortunately timed, for it muffled Benard's yelp of pain as the point of a dirk jabbed into his left buttock. He spun around to face Cutrath. He should have realized that the first thing the satrap's cub would do would be to ask Guthlag if the hostage had reported in yet today. A major war could not have produced as much blood as there was in young Horoldson's eye, but then, his hangover was working around a badly swollen jaw and no doubt a pounding lump on the back of his skull. Although no one else seemed to notice the confrontation, the space around them expanded as spectators wandered away to greet more distant friends.
'I am going to kill you before the day is out, turd.'
'My lord is kind.' That wonderful phrase could mean anything, or nothing. 'The noble lord understands that his slave was wretchedly drunk.'
Useless. Apology was a display of weakness and no apology could excuse an offense as enormous as Benard's.
'I will break every joint in your body, ending with your neck.'
He probably could. Benard was beefier, but he lacked the training and the bloodlust. Even if he won at rough- housing, the kid would just battleform or call for help. 'My lord is kind.'
'No.' Cutrath shook his head and winced at the result. 'As unkind as possible. Enjoy your last morning, vermin. I'll be waiting outside to begin.' He kicked Benard's ankle and stalked away.
Benard sagged back against the pillar again. He had survived the first encounter. The worst danger had always been that Cutrath would come after him in battleform; one warbeast could massacre a whole platoon of extrinsic swordsmen, let alone a solitary sculptor.
The satrap was standing in front of his throne, almost directly below Benard. From that angle Horold did not appear too grotesque, only very large and hairy. An ominous hush had fallen over the court, for Sansya was still kneeling at the fire. It seemed to Benard's untutored eye to be blazing normally now. Someone had primed it with too much oil—that was all, surely?
Horold lost patience. His voice was hoarse and violent, like a bull roar. 'I ask you again, Veslihan! Does our holy guardian bless this meeting?'
Reluctantly she rose, still staring uncertainly into the flames. 'I don't ... I think ...' Then she gabbled out the required oracle: 'My lord holy Veslih blesses this house and welcomes all who draw near in Her name praise the goddess amen.' She spun on her heel and fled the hall with red-gold robes rippling, auburn hair streaming. Without question she was on her way to inform Ingeld of whatever she had seen. Nevertheless, she had pronounced the blessing and there was no need for wholesale sacrifice or public penance. Matters could proceed.
'Amen!' shouted the congregation. The satrap took his seat. The scribes settled cross-legged in back of him; the two nearest the throne poised ready with stylus in hand and freshly rolled layers of clay ready on their boards.
'Begin!' roared the bull.
The herald called out the name of the noble Huntleader Darag Kwirarlson—the satrap's men would always be given precedence, even ahead of criminal matters. Darag petitioned his dread lord for a monopoly on pepper imported into Kosord and its purlieus for the next twelve years, free of all taxation or royalty. He gave no reason why he should profit in this way, and Horold did not ask for discussion.
'We gladly grant this petition of the valiant son of Kwirarl.'
The scribes' styli jabbed rapidly at the clay. The keeper of seals came forward to mutter over their chicken tracks and approve them. The tablets were then removed to be baked and more were brought.
After Darag came two other Werists, appealing for amendments to the records of certain lands they had somehow acquired. Horold did ask for objections this time, but no one was foolish enough to raise any. The effect of
