Children of Chaos

'Yes, lord.'

'Incredible.'

'My lord is kind.'

'Describe this new Pantheon.'

'My lord, the gods will stand above their respective shrines ...' Life-size freestanding statuary was a new art form, an idea imported from Florengia. Before the war, Vigaelian artists had rarely ventured beyond bas-relief or faience figurines. Since man-size statues could not be packed over the Edge, artists like Odok and now Benard were working from sketches and making up the rest as they went along. They could follow old traditions or flaunt them almost at will.

'How big are these figures?'

'The priests wanted human—I mean—life size, my lord.' Sweat, fool!

'And wearing what?'

'Whatever tradition and the priests require, lord.' Benard must be careful not to get carried away in describing this wonder he was to create. A man must keep all his wits about him when dealing with a despot. 'With appropriate attributes. Some clothed ... some not.'

'What will Weru be wearing?'

'Whatever my lord directs.'

'Then show Weru unclothed.'

'My lord is kind.'

While Benard considered how to ask for an edict of protection while he worked without mentioning Cutrath, the satrap forestalled him.

'Give him a sword—but no collar for a god, of course.' The monster's jowls distorted in what might have been a smile. A long black tongue came out and washed his tusks. He snuffled. 'You have given me grave offense in the past, little Bena. What misdeeds have you been up to now that you suddenly seek my favor?'

There was no possibility of lying in the presence of a Witness. Benard found enough saliva to whisper, 'Uh. My lord's most miserable slave, while drunk, used... er... insulting language to my lord's glorious son, the magnificent warrior Cutrath Horoldson, and now fears for his life... my lord.'

The monster chuckled and scratched a hairy ear with a curved talon. 'I should hope so. That's all?'

'May it please my lord.'

'Seer?'

The white-shrouded Witness glided closer without interrupting her spinning. 'Lord?'

'What really happened?'

'My lord!' Benard wailed. Not here!

'Silence!' snarled the satrap.

'The artist challenged your son to a fight over a woman and knocked him out cold, lord.'

Seers did not whisper. All the court heard.

It held its collective breath.

Horold snuffled. He opened and closed a fist a few times; the long black claws seemed to extrude farther. 'My son?' he croaked. 'This trash did? When?'

'Just before dawn.'

'Who saw this?'

'The woman, and two warriors of Cutrath's flank.'

Benard waited to die. The satrap's own questions had exposed both himself and the heir he had so recently honored to utter ridicule. A Werist's normal reaction to such insult would be lightning homicide, and Horold was visibly trembling with the effort needed to maintain control. But such public violence would make matters even worse, showing how deeply he had wounded himself. His piggy eyes scanned the appalled court, seeking any hint of a smirk or a snigger. He released a long breath ...

'Well, that is most interesting! Where is my son now?'

'Up in the gallery near the west stair, my lord.' The seer stopped her spinning long enough to wind the thread up on the spindle.

'Herald, call for Cutrath Horoldson.'

Benard wondered why his jangling emotions had not knocked the seer flat on her back by now. Was Horold going to let Cutrath perform the execution? With his teeth ...

'Artist!'

'My lord?'

'Weru is patron god of Kosord. You will make the Terrible One twice as tall as any of the others. More than twice.'

But my contract with the priests ... 'My lord is kind. Alas, the marble...'

'What of the marble?' The satrap's roar echoed. The congregation shimmered back a pace, but Benard could do