Children of Chaos

had known some bad experiences in his life, the worst being a rebel ambush outside Jazkra, when he was jumped by four warbeasts at once. It had happened soon after the twins' death, when he was less alert than usual, and by the time his host rallied to him, he had killed one of his assailants and the other three had killed him—or so his men thought. He had needed most of a day in battleform to heal and had failed to retroform properly. He had never looked in a mirror since.

His second worst experience, and also the third, fourth, and continuing on as high as he could count, had involved his sister Saltaja. He had no memory of his parents, or any ruling force in his life besides Saltaja. Terrible as Weru, she never made a threat she would not carry out. Nor had age softened her. Nay, it had not even dared touch her, for she was unchanged from his earliest memories. He had heard the rumors that she was his mother, not his sister, and did not believe them. Therek, the eldest, was not so sure, but you could never believe much of what Therek said. That she was a Chosen seemed very believable, but in sixty lifetimes Horold would never dare ask her.

Mother or not, she had always been able to cow him when she wanted to, and she was in a cowing mood that day. A daylight nightmare in her black robes, she led the way into his private courtyard, sat on the marble wall enclosing the fishpond, and began questioning him relentlessly on recruitment of reinforcements for Stralg. Forewarned of her arrival by Ingeld, Horold had ordered his tallymen to have answers ready for the sort of questions Saltaja usually asked, and had even made some effort to memorize a few responses, though numbers had never been his strong point. This time she ignored crops, taxes, and plagues, concentrating instead on how many recruits had passed through Kosord on their way upriver. How was he supposed to know that? They rarely even came to the palace. They'd storm the temple of Eriander and be on their way by dawn.

He summoned the tallymen and their baskets of tablets—and Saltaja tangled all of them in knots. Later, when the minions had been sent away and there were just the two of them again, she delivered the Truth as she saw it.

'At least six sixty have deserted in the last year. That's the least it can be. The real loss must be much worse.'

'There's always some wastage in training,' he protested. 'We run them down and make examples of them.'

She gave him a look he recalled from his childhood. 'I am talking of initiates, not boys! Have they found some way to shed their collars and live? If not, then where are they going?'

'Probably mostly nowhere. Any governor likes to collect a larger host than he'll admit to.'

'You were smarter when you still had your milk teeth. Listen and we'll try again. Either eleven-twelfths of the governors are suddenly holding back far more men than usual—which means there is a Face-wide rebellion brewing—or else about twenty-five out of every sixty recruits heading for Tryfors disappear on the way there. Or both,' she added, frowning. 'The leak seems to be upstream from here.'

'They're recruiting trash, that's the trouble.'

'They always did. But the loss in senior men is greater than it is in the youngsters. Why do you think I arrived with an escort of wet-eared boys?'

'You were frightened the older ones might gang up on you and mutiny on the way here!'

'Was that a flash of lightning I just saw? Yes. But I want a really senior man to escort me to Tryfors and back —one with a family here, so he won't be tempted to desert. Call your seer.'

The satrap obediently rose and went like a page to pass the word. He was intrigued by the thought of a boatload of Werists trying to throw Saltaja overboard—which side would he bet on? If he was Cutrath, sailing off to join the Florengian slaughter, he would certainly be tempted to desert, but the lad ought to be fairly safe playing tyrant in Celebre, married to that curvy little piece, Whatshername.

A Witness came waddling into the courtyard like an ambulatory bolster. He knew this fat one. She had been around for a couple of years, and Horold normally hated to see her answer his summons, because getting information out of her was like getting eggs from a gander. He wondered if the Queen of Shadows would fare any better with her. Saltaja began snarling questions; his part was just to tell the woman to answer each time.

Even with Saltaja asking the questions, the fat seer got away with giving very few firm answers. If recruits were absconding, it was happening nowhere near Kosord.

'Where is Horth Wigson?' Saltaja demanded at last.

'Who? Er, answer the question.'

'Horth Wigson is Fabia Celebre's foster father. He is not presently visible to my sight.'

'And Fabia Celebre?'

'Answer.'

'She is in the Hall of Hawks in the company of her brother.'

'Go!' Saltaja snapped and the seer obeyed in silence.

'Almost sunset!' Horold tried not to sound relieved. 'Have to go host the feast.'

'Wait. The brother?' Saltaja said. 'Could he rule a city?'

Horold's bellow of laughter probably startled the fish. 'Benard? He'd start by tearing it down so he could remake it better. He's a Hand!'

'Would he take orders?'

'He never has before. If he hears them at all he just forgets them. Er, you don't need him as a hostage anymore now, do you?'

Saltaja gave him a long, steady stare. 'Why do you dislike him so much?'

'Personal reasons.' If she snooped around the palace, she would hear about Cutrath, not the bedroom problem.

'I see. Come here.'