“Of course she is. And when I gave you the key to the private door, I never meant you to bring in women like her. I have many times told you not to wander the city without your guards, especially wearing a sword. Tonight I warned them that they will be punished if you get away from them again. Now, about the succession…”
If Babila was a Nymph, that would explain a lot… “What about the secession? Mean succ ession.”
“You did very well the other morning. You impressed the councillors, I’m sure. You certainly impressed Speaker Quarina, because she told me so later. You even impressed me.”
He let the words dog-paddle around in his brain for a while. Then he muttered, “Good.”
“You don’t impress me now.”
“Nag, nag, nag. Why do you always nag?”
“You give me so much to nag about.”
“Treat me like a man and I’ll behave like one.”
“I do and you don’t. I wish you were still a child or already a man.”
“’Snot my fault I’m not.”
She sighed. “Of course not. Let’s try again. Your year comes of age next sixday. Normally your father would have a great celebration, involving the whole city. But we can’t have a formal feast when he is about to return to the Old One. Are you following me?”
He grunted a positive.
“But I could invite the elders to an informal reception.”
He thought about it. So what? “You asking my permission?”
She sighed in that martyred way she had. “I’m asking if you would like a chance to meet them, all of them. And for them to meet you.”
That took longer. “You mean you want them to make me doge?”
She laid the sewing on a table beside her and met his eyes for the first time. “I’m not sure. They have to choose someone, and the only other male in the family is old Arnutho, a third cousin or something. He’s senile and has no children. Chies, do you understand that you would be in great danger if they did elect you? Very great danger. It’s no secret that the Fist is your true father. A lot of people might want to kill you as soon as they hear the news. Stralg is almost certainly going to lose the war, and then who wants his bastard ruling the greatest city of Florengia?”
“You want me killed?” he asked bitterly.
She shook her head. “No. You have more faults than the palace kennels have fleas, but you are still my son and I still love you. I swear that is the truth. You are all I have left. But if you understand the danger, and if you are brave enough to try, then I will support you.”
Needing time to find the trick in this, he said, “How?”
“I will present you to the council. If you can impress them as a sensible, well-intentioned young man-a sober young man, in other words-then they will at least listen to what you have to say. And you can make a case that you are the logical candidate.”
He blinked at her while this sank in, but she was still very fuzzy around the edges. “Why?”
She looked as if she were about to sigh, but didn’t. “Piero always accepted you as his son. I would help you prepare a speech. Who coached you the first time? Who chose that chlamys you wore?”
“Babila.”
“Maybe we should ask her advice, too.” The old crow bent her wrinkles into a smile. “Go and sleep it off. We’ll talk again in the morning. Or maybe afternoon would be better.”
“Much better.” He lobbed a smile back, maximum cute. It worked sometimes. This was one of the times. Her eyes glistened.
“Oh, Chies, Chies! It wasn’t your fault, but what happens from now on will be.” She stood up. “I couldn’t talk you out of trying, could I?”
How small she was! He could bend his head, looking down at her. “No.”
“Then I’ll give you all the help I can, because you’re my son and I love you. I certainly don’t want a kiss, but at least give me a hug.”
A page lit the way to his rooms for him. The outer chamber was a mess. He’d been trying on clothes earlier and had left them all over the floor. He thought about having the boy pick them up and fold them for him, but his dresser would do that in the morning. He told the boy to leave the lamp and go.
Just as well Babila wasn’t there. He had drunk a lot more than he realized. Feeling an urgent need for a chamber pot, he pushed through the bead curtain into his sleeping chamber.
“About time,” a man said.
“Past time,” said another.
Chies dropped the lamp and tried to draw his sword. The men stamped out the wick before the spilled oil caught. They stuffed a rag in his mouth before he got the blade free of the scabbard, then tied his arms behind his back. He protested, “Uuuungh!” If he vomited behind this gag he would choke.
“Don’t mumble,” one of them said as they hustled him out on the terrace. “Bad manners.”
They were Heroes-he saw starlight reflected on their collars. But they were Florengian Heroes. And they were big. Huge. They tied a rope around his waist, then one lifted him over the balustrade and the other lowered him to ground level. It occurred to him as he went down, spinning around and around, that he was being kidnapped.
INGELD NARSDOR
was confident of a safe homecoming and a warm welcome. She had been watching the mound that was Kosord draw steadily closer for several days, and now she could make out the palace itself. Even Oliva seemed to be kicking harder, as if anxious to be let out to survey her future domain. The crew promised that the aptly named Joy of Return would dock by noon. Every night Ingeld viewed auguries in the campfires, and lately they had shown her back at work, relighting the sacred fire on the apex of the pyramid, which was her most solemn public duty.
Deserters from the city had been joining her procession for days, for while Horold’s original host had been outsiders, its younger Heroes were Kosord-born and news of the satrap’s death had caused many of them to revert to their ancestral loyalty to the dynast. They reported that Daughter Sansya had done a superb job of substituting for Ingeld in her absence, and had recently taken to proclaiming the dynast’s imminent return. Sansya must be seeing the same visions she was. Holy Veslih had things well in hand, then, and no doubt the star Nartiash would appear at tomorrow’s dawn to proclaim the turning of the year, right when it would show to maximum effect.
So Ingeld herself would be safe, but the flames had shown her nothing of Benard. The gods gave no guarantees for his safety anymore, nor for old Guthlag’s. If there was going to be fighting, those two were the most vulnerable and the usurper’s horde must still outnumber her tiny force by a sixty to one. She might survive, but without Benard her happiness would not.
Those doubts she tried to keep to herself. She sat close to Benard in Joy ’s bow and watched the winter birds swoop low above the water. The day was cold, but sunny and not too windy. The half flank of Werists serving as today’s guard of honor were all formerly Orlad’s men-Jungr, Snerfrik, Hrothgat, Narg, Prok, and Namberson-and she was sure Hordeleader Guthlag had good reasons for that assignment. The other six boats that now made up her flotilla were following in close formation. Although river traffic was light at midwinter, once in a while some hardy crew would go past, struggling upriver against wind and current. Usually now they knew whose fleet this was, and cheered her.
Witness Tranquility was no doubt busily recording, but nothing of her was visible under her veils.
A head surfaced and disappeared again.
Snerfrik sang out, “Here comes another one!”
Something splashed alongside the boat. A whitish flipper slapped at the gunwale and became a hand. Snerfrik and Prok reached over and grabbed, hauling the man up until he could cling to the side, half in and half out of the boat, blinking water from his eyes. He wore a brass collar, naturally.
“Next boat behind!” Prok said. “Hordeleader Guthlag is aboard and will take your oath. There’s a Speaker
