Children of Chaos

'You don't know what all of me looks like,' the Werist said with menace.

Benard resisted the temptation to say he would call in Hiddi as a consultant. 'My lord is a true servant of his god. I am faithful to holy Anziel. I will carve your image as perfectly as I know how. Like this.' He gestured at Her statue.

Cutrath looked surprised. 'That's Hiddi!'

'I saw her that night we ... we ... that night.'

'That's very good,' Cutrath admitted.

Benard was glad he had dropped his maul earlier, for that remark might have caused him to drop it on his toes now. 'Thank you!'

'But you haven't seen all of me.'

'I'll be generous.'

Cutrath thought that over, too. 'Very well,' he said, and turned and walked away.

Benard stooped to retrieve his tools.

Thod's worshipful grin had appeared from around Sinura's half-shaped hips. 'Really generous?'

'In perfect proportion,' Benard said sternly. 'Anything else would not be art.'

Rumble... said his belly.

He cursed and wiped an arm over his streaming face. The sun was murderous. 'Fetch me some ... No, wait. I'll get it myself. Come and round off this corner for me.' He scratched an outline. 'That much. And that.' He handed over chisel and maul, feeling his hands quivering from the work—time for a rest. As he headed across to the well, a beaming Thod prepared to build muscles.

Four priests in variegated robes emerged from the Pantheon, causing Benard to mutter under his breath again, but they turned and went off toward the river instead of coming to badger him as he had feared. Priests were pests, always wanting to inspect and criticize and bring guests to admire. So was hunger. And sleep. Anything that came between a man and his art was a pest.

He pulled up the rope, drank about half the bucket's contents, and tipped the rest over his head. As he started back to the future Anziel, a carrying chair emerged from the nearest alley. This time he swore aloud, something anatomical about pigs.

The chair was enclosed by a canopy and gauzy curtains so he could not see the occupant, but only a woman's conveyance would be so brightly gilded and enameled. The armed guard trotting ahead of it was a Florengian, as were its bearers, two brawny, deep-chested men. The guard was younger than they, slender and nimble-looking, wearing a sword on his back. All three were well turned out, with kilts of good quality, hair and beards neatly trimmed, although at the moment they were as breathless as if they had run all the way from the Edge, dusty and streaked with sweat from their exertions. The bearers set down the chair close to the statue of Mayn.

However annoying the interruption, Benard must be gracious. Women whose husbands could afford such a retinue were sources of future commissions. He wished he had not left the front of his shed undraped, showing all its intestinal clutter.

'Your mistress works you hard,' he said in his rusty Florengian.

'I do not speak that language.'

Only now Benard noticed the seal thong around the swordsman's wrist. His ears were not cropped, as the bearers' were. By the Twelve, artists were supposed to see!

'I beg your pardon, master swordsman. I assumed you were a prisoner of war.'

The man smiled graciously. 'A natural mistake, master. I am a freeborn citizen of Podarvik, two menzils from here. My parents still live there.'

'There is cool water in the well. I am Master Artist Celebre, if you would be so kind as to present me.'

'That's not needed,' said a woman's voice. A hand glittering with seven or eight jeweled rings emerged from the drape.

Benard bent to kiss it. Then he recognized the perfection of its line and texture, the scent of her skin. He jumped back, startled. 'Hiddi!'

'Who else?' She threw back the drape. 'Go water the team, Nerio. I'm quite safe with this fellow.'

The swordsman bowed and trotted off, gesturing for the slaves to accompany him. Hiddi favored Benard with a smile to slay armies.

'Master Benard! We meet again.' She was enthroned in her chair, draped in a sort of pink spiderweb that did not reach her knees. Ropes of garnets, coral, and amber encircled her slender neck, her wrists bore a dozen bangles of gold, silver, and jade; jewels sparkled in her hair, in her ears; a tiara of pearls adorned the flaxen pillow of her hair. She was enjoying Benard's amazement.

Part of that was despair, though. How could he ever hope to match such perfection? What marble could equal the translucency of her skin?

She favored holy Anziel with a glance of twin sapphires. 'You made that? How clever! Is that an owl?'

'It does not do justice to the original,' Benard said warily. Having recalled that he had a gold arm ring buried under his sleeping mat, he had worked out why the Nymph had come calling. It was surprising that she had not caught wind of his windfall long ago, since Horold's donation had been so public. Benard was no longer a penniless artist, but that situation could be rectified.

'I am 'stremely impressed.' Hiddi managed to look bashful. 'It was terrible of me not to at once recognize your name that night you ... Thod! Go and play by yourself for a while. We grown-ups are talking!'