Children of Chaos

stood by the door, not daring to go out on the balcony lest the crowd down there see her and harm her, mindless rage-beast that it was. Torches flamed and sputtered in the night, the fires of war. The battle was reaching in through windows and over walls; she could hear missiles striking shutters, strife downstairs—voices raised in fury, sounds of destruction, animal howls as Werist tangled with Werist.

Behind her, the child slept the sleep of innocence in her crib. One wavering flame above the little bronze lamp revealed a room of luxury, full of lustrous hangings, soft mats, plump quilts. Palaces were very fine, but it was time to leave. Paola crossed the room to the lamp. She held it to the hangings, and when she had sent fire licking up those in three or four places, she tipped oil and burning wick on the sleeping platform. The bedding leaped eagerly into flame and acrid clouds that stung her eyes and throat. Now the defenders had more than the attackers outside to worry about.

She scooped up the child, so heavy now! She was not soon enough, for something heavy dropped on the balcony in a scrabble of claws. A monstrous black shadow towered up against the glow outside, then shimmered and shriveled and became a very large Vigaelian, soaked in blood and sweat, naked except for a brass collar. He was panting almost too hard to speak.

'She-fiend!' he gasped. 'What have you done? Give me the brat.' He strode forward, one hand reaching for her throat and one for the child. 'We need you no longer, chthonian.'

She had done what was needed. The babe was weaned and now the woman had seriously upset the satrap by setting his palace alight, so he was going to kill her.

Hate!

He reared back. 'Stop that!' He tried again, and this time he fell back farther. 'What are you doing? Stop it!'

Hate-hate-hate! She advanced, still clutching the child, who also had strength that the woman could draw on. The Werist backed away, screaming curses, trying to fend her off with wild swings of his fists, although she was not even close to him. He came to the doorway and his screaming took on a new note.

'Weru! Holy Weru! Help me!' He backed right out onto the balcony, howling in terror. The crowd-beast recognized him and screamed its rage. Missiles pattered like hail. A bronze-tipped shaft sprouted from the Werist's chest. Then another. He twisted around, displaying the feathered ends, staggered a few steps, took two more hits, and toppled over the balustrade. The mob cheered him all the way down.

Paola turned back into the smoke and hurried the child away to safety.

¦

A clap of thunder like the end of the world jerked Frena upright and awake. She gasped for breath, hearing the drumming of terror in her heart. Sweat trickled down her face. No reek of smoke making her eyes burn, no raging mob outside, but the vision had been as clear as life itself. Where? When? Apicella escaped... What was the name the seer had mentioned? Jat something. Satrap Karvak, another of Hrag's sons... died during the sack of Jat-Nogul...

Another stunning thunderclap sent Frena dashing, naked, to the window. One should be careful what one prayed for, Horth always said. She had prayed to the Old One to save her from having to visit the Pantheon.

A bad enough storm could do that, but she did not want to see half of Skjar leveled in the process. Usually the canyon sheltered the city from the worst winds, but it could channel them, too, and waves could do even more damage. Rarely a storm surge lined up with the gorge and caused massive flooding and destruction. Again the heavens roared.

The rainy season was about to begin in earnest.

¦

All morning a curtain of black rose steadily up the sky. By noon the waters had turned from bright blue enamel to lead, and an ominous swell was fondling the quays as if testing their strength for the battle to come. Everything movable had been trussed or stowed or battened, and most ships had been towed around to the safety of Weather Haven. Thunder rumbled constantly.

'We'll all die!' Ni whimpered.

'Don't be ridiculous!' Frena snapped. 'You've seen storms before. This house is built of stone! It's the safest place to be.'

The fan Ni was wafting at her made no difference whatsoever. Everyone was staggering and gasping in the steamy air, hurrying to ready her ladyship for her departure—Inga making final adjustments to the mother-of-pearl combs holding up her hair, Plumna applying the final touches to the silvered fingernails, Lilin kneeling to adjust the flower petals on her slippers. The rest were trying to tidy up, and outside the sun had disappeared.

'If the gods are kind my lady will make it home again before the storm,' Inga said soothingly. Efficient Inga had led the team dressing Frena for the great occasion—several pot-boilings of bathing, primping, curling, scenting, powdering, and painting.

Or the gods might rain on her procession as a penance for ever having flirted with the Old One. These visions she had been having—were they anything more than evil deception from the Mother of Lies? If the Old One wanted Frena to swear to Her, then why had She not shown her how it was done? She was so giddy from stress and lack of sleep that she hardly cared which god or gods she would accept today. Since before dawn she had danced a wild gavotte of overseeing cooking, baking, table preparation, the arrivals of fresh produce, wine decanting, stabling, checking and double-checking a myriad of other details. No one had ever organized so large a feast in so little time! Then had come the preparation of Frena herself, but even in her bath she had been kept abreast of the preparations by a constant stream of reports. The jugglers had arrived, the geese had been put in the ovens, some of the guest gifts were late, the wine jars were being cooled in wet rags...

A mere three days ago this miraculous white gown had not existed. White was the traditional color for dedications and all agreed that it set off her coloring to advantage. Overruling impertinent protests from Inga, Frena had chosen a daringly low-cut bodice. She had the figure to support it, so why not let the world admire? For three days and nights, legions of sleepless seamstresses had labored to pleat and hem and, above all, stitch on pearls. More than ten sixty pearls shone like summer dew, defining and stiffening the bodice. Another few sixty formed the