Thunder roared. A gust of icy air whirled through the heat and disappeared again.
Then Perag Hrothgatson said, "Ready?"
"The load's on board, my lord. Did you get a good grope?"
"Indeed. That's prime stuff, lad! Don't get to play with dugs like that very often."
This was all for Horth's benefit, of course. Hrothgatson was Saltaja's favorite henchman and had very probably led the mob that killed Paola. Had Horth ever managed to buy proof of that, he would have arranged for the Werist to die, but very probably was not enough to justify execution. The real culprit had been Saltaja, anyway. Alas, a Chosen was vulnerable to nothing less than a maddened mob. Or perhaps another Chosen—Master Pukar had been working on the problem for years without finding any sure way to strike at her. Now time had run out.
The man who jumped aboard, making the chariot lurch, certainly smelled like Perag, but nothing more was said. He whipped up the team, and they rattled off over the cobbles. With thunder roaring almost continuously the streets must be almost empty, but more speed meant more bouncing and so was of little consolation to Horth, who was flapped up and down like a rug until he thought his back would snap.
♦
The chariot rumbled over only four bridges before it stopped, so it had not gone as far as the palace. That was another bad sign. From the reek of urine and rotting meat, Horth could guess he was on Blackstaur, which was the tanners' island, but also home to other unsavory trades, as if evil stench attracted evil deeds. Many hands hauled him from the car and ran him indoors and down steps. When a door creaked open and then slammed shut behind him, the noise echoed spookily. A push sent him sprawling on slimy flagstones, stinking of sewer.
"Up!" Something hit him in the ribs, not hard enough to break any. He rose and pulled off his hat. He was in a cellar or crypt without windows, lit dimly by a single lamp and very crowded by three Werists, one of whom was Hrothgatson. "String him up!"
The same two bruisers as before tied ropes around Horth's wrists and hung him in the center of the cell with his toes barely touching the ground. Then they armed themselves with cudgels and waited, grinning eagerly. Horth was not in the least surprised when the huntleader produced a cloth and blindfolded him. This was all standard technique to put him in a cooperative mood. He had never been subjected to quite so much of it before, but he knew of others who had. He also knew of many who might have been, but had never returned to tell.
"Now, lord?"
"No hurry. Give him time to think."
The door thundered shut.
More bluff. Horth was supposed to start worrying that his tormentors might still be in there with him, about to strike without warning. They had left him fiendishly uncomfortable, dividing his weight between strangled wrists and toes already cramped; and yet that position did ease the fire in his back.
Although Werists were known for their brutality, the satrapy was popular in Skjar. The plutocracy Stralg had overthrown had favored the rich, taxing the poor and keeping them firmly in their place. Eide Ernson kept everyone in place, but he levied no taxes at all. On clay, he owed Horth more than sixty-sixty-sixty measures of gold, probably the largest single debt in all Vigaelia. Horth knew he would never see one copper twist of it again, because any request for repayment would be answered with bronze rather than gold. This did not trouble him. When another "loan" was demanded, he would negotiate some small favor that would cost the satrap himself nothing—a ten-year monopoly on salt, for instance. Thus Eide levied no taxes; Horth waxed even richer, ready to be fleeced again in the future; and the poor paid anyway.
This time the satrap or his wife wanted more than mere gold. Obviously they were after Frena—as even she had guessed—and Horth would give up everything he possessed rather than surrender his precious daughter into their talons. Saltaja was capable of understanding that, even if her blockhead husband was not. Alas, all pleasures were temporary, as a Ucrist well knew. All loved ones were hostages.
Tomorrow's joys and yesterday's,
Are sweeter than today's.
He had learned of the danger four days ago, when Perag had dragged him up to the palace at dawn so the Queen of Shadows could issue her absurd threats of denouncing Frena as a Chosen. Even the identity of the bridegroom she had in mind had been so obvious that Horth had seriously contemplated sending the two swordsmen to Kyrn with orders for Frena to flee. After a little consideration, that plan had seemed too risky and impetuous. Besides, a girl's dedication ought to be the finest celebration of her life, and he had not wanted to deny her that. Happiness was too rare to waste. He had decided to wait until tonight, after all the guests left, and then break the news and offer her the choice. The ship would have been ready. Knowing Frena, he was certain she would rather be a lifelong fugitive than the wife of a Werist.
He had been careful, but no one could outwit the Witnesses of Mayn. Now Saltaja would cut his throat or beat him to death, whichever pleased her, and then use his seal to transfer everything he owned to the satrap. It had been done to others before him. Frena would go to her fate as broodmare to a brute.
♦
Horth—the Wigson came later—was born in a wattle hovel on a scrubby islet in Ocean, to a mother who never quite recovered from one baby before starting another. Small, undernourished, and generally picked on, he had an utterly miserable childhood. His father was a sailor who came home at long intervals to drink up his pay, launch another baby, beat his wife, abuse his children, and brawl with his friends. His departures were cause for universal rejoicing. There was more to eat when he wasn't there.
Horth was roughly the tenth of twelve or fifteen, depending on how one counted stillbirths and miscarriages. The survivors all disappeared at puberty, heading for golden Skjar to find work, which was very easy at that age if you were not fussy about what you did or was done to you. Horth minded. He minded very much, and he was not cut out for hard labor, either.
What he wanted was wealth, and he soon decided that a steady supply of eggs beat one meal of roast goose. In a moneyless economy, that was not a trivial insight. Most rich people saw wealth as ownership of land or power and despised trade as beneath their dignity. Even merchants often thought of things bought with copper as different from those bought with silver, and likewise with gold. Converting one metal to another was just another barter, more haggling, so a universal scale of value was a difficult abstraction.
Having a knack for numbers and bargaining, young Horth talked himself into a job in a market and then an apprenticeship in the tallymen's guild. As soon as he had been inducted master tallyman, he was invited to join the Ucrist mysteries. It was typical of that cult that it had no priesthood and claimed no grandiose name for itself or its members: no "Heroes of..." or "Hands of..." Just Ucrists. Its shrine was a stuffy rented cellar and it met only when one of the brothers or sisters nominated a candidate for membership. Most initiates were far too busy to bother attending and knew that their god would approve of that attitude. Besides, there was something ridiculous about a congregation of wealthy merchants, ranchers, and mine owners standing around by lamplight singing psalms.