that morning, plus whatever had aroused such emotion in Fabia and that peculiar story of the escape from Veritano, there was good reason to suspect Chies Celebre of being a Chosen. Less evidence than that had sent many to living graves.
“Doge Piero,” Marno told the boy, “deeded you an appanage at Fauniani. You know it?”
“No, my lord. Papa never thought it safe for me to visit it.”
“It isn’t safe now, but I am sure that won’t stop you, so ask one of the huntleaders for an escort. And you may keep your present quarters, here in the palace.”
Chies was being treated with astonishing generosity-most people in Celebre would agree with Orlad’s first thought on meeting the Stralg bastard, that his head should be removed right away. Chies was thanking the ducal pair, and so was Oliva, and all was sweetness and light on the surface. Underwater the sharks still circled.
Dantio shivered. It was past time that he left. He had broken his oaths once and could not expect a second forgiveness. Never meddle, never warn. He must leave Fabia and Orlad to fight their own battles, or rather he must leave Fabia to fight them. Orlad was a spectacular killing machine, but he wouldn’t have a hope against a Chosen, no matter how weedy and harmless the brat looked.
THE STRANGER
disembarked late in the day, when the shadows were long and the summer heat lay heavy on the city. Young and powerfully built, he leaped ashore even before the riverboat tied up. His bundle of possessions was notably slim, his loincloth frayed, and the rag around his neck was grubby and sweat-stained. Even his golden hair and beard could have benefited from some attention.
No one questioned him or contested his arrival, although most cities had rules for dealing with young men who wore scarves like his. Usually the authorities would send them packing right away. He might be given the option of removing the scarf, but only on condition that he immediately swear allegiance to the city and its horde.
The stranger barely glanced at the busy frontage, with its hawkers and stalls, its traders and porters, and all the cargoes being moved between boats and carts. He headed straight to the nearest alley and vanished into its shadows. Thereafter he kept to the right-hand wall and carried his bundle on his left shoulder, shielding his face. Although the streets were merely gaps between a jumbled maze of mud brick buildings, he strode along without hesitation.
Other pedestrians mostly moved out of his way. The few men who did not, and came face-to-face with him in contested passage, took sudden note of the scarf and his scars and the look in his eyes; then they, too, stepped aside, muttering apologies. It was the eyes, mostly.
At last he came to a turning he did not remember, a wall so obviously fresh that it must have been built within the last year or two. He had anticipated an open space there, but no space stayed open long in a heavily populated city. He tried bearing right, then left, and eventually found himself below a flight of marble steps and the facade of a large stone building. He had forgotten how big it was. He remembered other things, though. With a snort of annoyance, or possibly disgust, he strode up the steps and entered.
He stood, then, within a single large, circular chamber that resembled a giant birdcage. The entrance he had used was one of twelve, all very high, separated by twelve walls like elongated, curved pillars that supported a domed roof. On this sweltering day in late summer the interior was shadowed and cool, but it would be wildly uncomfortable in winter. The floor was notably devoid of furniture, a total waste of space, but there was a shrine at the base of each wall. Above each shrine stood a god or goddess, shaped from honey-colored marble. This was the Pantheon, home of the Bright Ones. Their images were so lifelike that the stranger could almost imagine Them stepping down at the end of the day and strolling off in laughing groups to Their carefree homes in Paradise.
One quick walk around and he could leave. If he could return to the riverbank before sunset he might find passage on a boat out; otherwise he would spend the night at the temple of Eriander and go as soon after dawn as possible. A dozen or so other people were at worship, mostly elderly women and attendant priests. Since they all happened to be to his right, the stranger turned to his left, feeling the marble cool and smooth underfoot.
The first idol was neither male nor female, just an ambiguous youth clutching a cloth in front of Himself or Herself. His or Her arm obscured His or Her breasts and the cloth covered His or Her groin. Yet why so sad? If the deity in charge of lust could not look happy, who ever could?
The stranger bowed his head and muttered the briefest possible prayer: “I honor You, holy Eriander; give me Your blessing.”
A fat, shaven-headed priest came shuffling over, rubbing his hands. Then he noticed the stranger’s neckcloth and cringed away from his glare. “If I can be of help, my-”
“No! You cannot.”
The priest offered a meaningless smile and limped away on very flat feet.
The stranger strode on to the next shrine. He had seen this statue before. Hiddi! He knew the model intimately and had many happy memories of tumbling her in Eriander’s temple. Even for a Nymph, she had been an incredible rollick. Here she depicted holy Anziel, holding a hawk on Her arm-goddess smiling down, bird turned to peer up at Her. Every feather on the bird was as perfect as every curl on Hiddi’s head. Just looking at her image was enough to arouse him. He felt certain that the statue’s leg would feel warm and supple to the touch.
Resisting that sacrilegious temptation, the stranger mumbled the same curt prayer and went on to the next god, a naked young man with a dove on his shoulder, smiling down at a fawn held in the crook of his elbow. Oh gods! That face! That smile! Was it Finar? Or Fitel? His brothers had looked exactly like that early in their Werist training, before their teeth and noses got smashed in the roughhousing. Finar, probably, but even their mother had been mistaken sometimes. The sculptor must have known which twin he was depicting, but how could he possibly have remembered them so well? “I honor You, holy Nastrar, give me Your blessing.”
Seething with fury now, the stranger strode on. Beyond the next entrance was the idol he especially wanted to see. Or not to see. But there He was, holy Weru Himself, holding a sword, His emblem. He differed from all the others in that He was shown seated. Seated, and yet the same height as all the others! The implication took a moment to register-that Weru was twice the size of all the other gods.
That was what Satrap Horold had ordered. But Horold had died long before that statue was made. Why had the artist obeyed a dead man’s instructions at the cost of spoiling the symmetry of the Pantheon? Why should a Hand so honor the war god?
The Terrible One deserved a longer prayer. “I honor You, most holy Weru, my lord and protector, mightiest of gods. I will live in Your service and die to Your honor.”
“I promised I would be generous,” said a quiet voice behind him.
The stranger’s fists clenched into mallets of bone. He knew that voice. It was the last voice he wanted to hear. The face he would see if he turned around was the very face he had been trying so hard not to meet.
“Go away!”
There was no reply. He continued to study holy Weru. Weru studied him. The god’s nose had never been flattened, his ears had not been bloated out like tubers. Otherwise their faces were the same face. The god was perhaps a few years older. Wide shoulders, thick calves… everything as it should be. More or less. More, probably.
“You were not stingy,” the stranger admitted, just to discover if his unwelcome companion was still there.
“I was sent to fetch you.”
The stranger turned around.
The Florengian was still big and hairy and dark of hide. He wore a leather smock smeared with clay and paint. If anything, he had grown even broader in the last three years or so. Life had left marks on his face, and robbed his smile of some teeth, but it had also given him more confidence-possibly even arrogance. Werists did not take kindly to extrinsics putting on airs.
Not even homeless hungry Werists didn’t.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Cutrath! We thought you were dead. Where have you been?” Benard whipped his great stonemason’s arms around the stranger and crushed all the breath out of him. “Thank the gods!”
