choker she wore on her neck, about as many the two matching bangles, and there were even more in her tiara. She preferred not to think about recent mortality among oysters.
Inga held up the mirror so she could make a final inspection. No great beauty peered back at her. White face powder was the customary makeup for maidens going to make their vows; on her complexion it would look ridiculous, so she had spurned it. An adequate face, but no one would ever mistake her for holy Anziel come visiting mortals. A young Veslih, just maybe—motherly, competent, defender of the hearth. Not, she hoped, Mother of Lies, Womb of the World, or any of the Dark One's even less flattering titles. No one ever made images of the Old One.
'Thank you all,' she said. 'You have done marvelously. Let us go down so my father and everyone else may see the fruits of all your hard work.'
'The master is waiting outside, mistress.'
'Then bring him in at once!' Frena said crossly. When Horth appeared, she curtsied low.
He bowed. 'Oh, my chick has grown up! Behold the swan.'
Not a swan, a cuckoo. He had lied to her all her life, but she did not hold it against him. He had raised her, protected her, cherished her. The doge man in Florengia had given her away.
She was amused to see that Horth was not resigned to skulking in her shadow, even on this, her special day. His robes were more dazzling than hers, ablaze in embroidery and gems ... a jeweled cap to hide his baldness, dye to make his beard less hazy, shoes even higher than normal. She embraced him carefully, not wanting to knock him over.
'Exquisite, my dear! Turn around. Your mother would be proud. You are truly gorgeous, Frena! Oh, I shall have to summon half a dozen of my best tallymen to keep track of all the marriage offers I will hear tonight.'
'It's quite easy, Father. You just keep saying no! Yes?'
He chuckled. 'Yes, 'no' it will be. I keep my promises.' But according to the Witness, he would shortly be offered a candidate who could not be refused.
As they set off along the corridor arm-in-arm, with her skirts whispering exciting secrets to the tiles, she sensed his limp and knew his back still troubled him. She slowed down, taking this last chance for a private word with him.
'Father, listen. I don't truly believe that the satrap's wife cares one raindrop about my reputation.'
'Frena—'
'Let me finish, please. Gods know her own reputation stinks high enough, and if Skjar had to vote for the most likely Chosen in—'
'Frena! I asked you not to—'
'Listen to me! If it turns out that the Queen of Shadows has a match in mind for me, you will be in trouble if you do not cooperate. I hope I'm wrong, but please don't put yourself in danger by sticking to that promise you gave me.'
She glanced at him to see his reaction, but he showed no signs of taking her words seriously. Indeed, he laughed as they turned the corner and started downstairs.
'Frena, Frena! Don't worry. I hope you won't rush into matrimony, my dear. I don't want to share you with anyone. But if any woman can afford to pick and choose, you can. I shall be very lonely when you fly off to a husband, and all my wealth cannot dispel loneliness.' That was an unusual concession from him, but he was keeping something from her, some plot, perhaps.
Halfway down the stairs, she paused to enjoy the applause. Most of the household staff had gathered to watch her arrival, and all the shop employees were there as well. She was running late, for there must still be well-wishing and gift-giving from the employees, with exactly five of the most senior men being allowed to kiss the debutante— those selected having been advised beforehand. Master Pukar was not one of them. Then off to the Pantheon and...
She was still five or six treads from the bottom when shouts of protest from the doorway alerted her to trouble. Horth staggered to a halt; she steadied him, and heard him mutter something she suspected was a prayer. Brass collars were advancing through the crowd, people shuddering away in alarm from brutal stubbled faces, massive bare limbs. Their leader halted at the bottom of the stairs, fists on hips. He had eight Werists at his back.
'Huntleader Perag Hrothgatson!' Horth exclaimed, resuming the descent with Frena still on his arm. 'Twelve blessings on you, Hero, and your fine warriors. You have doubtless come to inspect the security arrangements for the visit by our noble satrap and—'
Perag had a sneer to swallow an ox. 'Ain't he gorgeous, lads? Which one's the prettiest, do you think?'
Horth's smile did not waver. 'May I offer you and your men some refreshment, Huntleader? Too early in the year for wine, I'm afraid, but we have some fresh-made beer.'
Including two soured batches that would do perfectly for these brutes.
'I came for you, boy. My lord wants you.'
'There must be some misunderstanding.' Horth halted two steps up, so his eyes were more or less level with the intruder's. 'Satrap Eide and his lady are invited to our feast.'
At close quarters the Werist smelled bad and looked worse. His height and width were incredible. Verk and Uls and the rest of the house swordsmen stood against a distant wall, livid with fury and shame, completely irrelevant.
The Werist shook his head contemptuously. 'Tell him when you see him. Take him, lads!'
It had been rehearsed, obviously. Moving impossibly fast for their size, two younger thugs jumped forward and grabbed Horth's arms. Hoisting them high, like flagpoles, they wheeled around and ran him out of the hall, bearing him backward with his humiliation visible to everyone. His jeweled cap slid down over one eye and his head only barely cleared the lintel.
'This is outrageous!' Frena yelled. 'The satrap himself ordered this ... ordered ...'
