Children of Chaos

nothing but sweat faster.

'The blocks are already cut or on order, my lord. And the difficulties of transporting so large a block, and of finding a large enough slab which is not marked by unsightly veins of mineralization—'

'Scribe, record that the hostage Benard is to be supplied with transportation to our marble quarry and all the help he needs to cut the block he selects and transport it back to Kosord, all at our expense. Advise the guard that his parole is extended to permit this. Give him coppers to ...' The black lips curled again. 'No, not our little Bena! I'll send someone more responsible along to take care of the expenses.'

'My lord is kind!' This was better than anything Benard could have dreamed of! A journey to the quarry could probably be spun out indefinitely. Cutrath would have to wait.

'Your escort can also make sure you find your way home safely. Herald, return that sketch to him when he leaves.' Evil porcine eyes studied Benard for a moment. 'Take it to our wife. Let her have it as a keepsake. Ah, my misbegotten excuse for a warrior son approaches.'

Not having been summoned as 'Warrior Horoldson,' Cutrath was creeping forward like a civilian.

'You may rise,' his father said.

'My lord is kind.' Cutrath sat back on his heels and stared agonizing death at Benard.

'Always,' the satrap growled. 'You pride yourself on your manly physique, do you not?'

'My lord is—'

'Answer!'

Cutrath choked, as if he were about to vomit from sheer rage. 'I believe I am not unworthy of my noble ancestry, my lord.'

'Girls tell you how handsome and strong you are?'

'Some do, my lord.'

'How many, exactly?'

'Um ... Two?' Cutrath whispered, eyeing the seer uneasily.

'Have any ever called you a useless runt?' Horold roared.

His son shuddered and seemed to shrink. 'None, my lord.'

'They should be more perceptive. Our artist hostage here needs a model for his portrayal of holy Weru. You will pose for Benard. As often and as long as he requires. Nude! Scribe, record this edict. Record, also, that the artist remains under my mercy. This forbiddance applies to all members of our host. There will be no inexplicable accidents, Cutrath! No beatings in dark alleys.'

'My lord is kind.' He was white to the lips.

'You think so? You have disgraced all the Heroes of Kosord. Report to Huntleader Kwirarlson for punishment and beg him not to demean you further with any show of clemency. Scribe, we are indebted to the hostage Benard Celebre for exposing the worthlessness of our son.' Horold tugged off one of his gold armbands. 'Record also that we give him this ring as a token of our favor. Next case.'

The entire court exploded in roars of approval as the smarmy courtiers cheered the satrap's leniency and wonderful generosity. They quite drowned out Benard's astonished thanks. He bowed and backed away from the throne, wondering what in the world he was supposed to do with a slab of gold.

seven

FRENA WIGSON

knew there was something wrong the moment she swept into the mansion. Servants bowed to her or knelt, depending on rank; they smiled, or looked shocked if they saw the cut on her shoulder. But there was something wrong. Master Trinvar, the steward, was hastily summoned to proclaim a formal welcome.

She thanked him. 'Inform the master that I have returned. Tell Inga I want a hot bath right away. Has Plumna had her baby yet? Have my jewel cases brought from the vaults. I trust my rooms have been cleaned and aired? Swordsman Uls has broken his arm. Verk will bring him to the Chatter Place Sinurists for healing tomorrow, so pray dispatch a generous gift to them. I shall want music this evening. Verk still has my chariot, but inform the stable master that the left wheel is slightly off-true. Are the extensions to the servant quarters finished yet?'

Her queries answered, she hurried up to her rooms. Horth had broken with the Skjaran tradition of building in wood. The Wigson mansion was of stone, faced with tile, marble, and mosaic, shimmering inside and out. He never stopped enlarging, decorating, and furnishing with art. New things of beauty were displayed in prominent places, but after a few thirties they would be ousted by even newer prizes and moved to less public sites. When they were in danger of sinking to the servants' quarters, he would resell them. He boasted that he never lost on such trading, although it was the merest hobby.

Several life-size carvings in ebony had been added to the main staircase since Frena left, and she made a note to admire them in detail when she had a moment. She was not surprised to discover that the priceless Ashurbian funeral urns they had replaced now adorned her current rooms. No, the surprise was that her wardrobe had not been moved to somewhere even larger and grander while she was gone. The urns were an improvement on some now-absent malachite fish.

Her mother had always insisted on a bedroom overlooking gardens, but Frena preferred the waterfront. She loved the bustle and excitement, ships coming and going, brawny sailors and longshoremen toiling away. Ocean was bizarrely different from land. It seemed just as flat, and yet it ended in a sharp horizon not half a menzil offshore. Ships went over that edge, so that their hulls disappeared before their sails, or appeared after them. She found this fascinating and incomprehensible. Her longtime secret dream was of a handsome sailor sweeping her away in his ship in a trading voyage all around Ocean, lasting for years, visiting dozens of exotic cities and romantic islands. Father could supply the ship; the problem would be finding a suitably hunky sailor with refined manners.