Cuddling the child, she said, "My baby here says we have been married at least two years. You can invent a story."
He said, "Yes. All right. We're married. What's your name?"
She laughed. He laughed.
Strangely, after all these years, he remembered that unexpected shared laughter as vividly as he remembered the shared bed that eventually followed, although the sheer intensity of the pleasure she revealed to him that night had been one of the greatest surprises of his life. He had been a reasonably competent husband thereafter, until failing health affected his virility.
She shrugged. "How does 'Paola' sound? Paola Apicella. Name your daughter, master."
"Frena," he said at once, his mother's name.
It had taken his agents almost a year to pry out the rest of the story and establish the child's identity. By then it had not mattered. He never learned the details of Paola's background, for she had been a person of no importance.
Had she truly been a Chosen? He had never again tried to ask her. She had been loving and well loved. She could not be compared with the Queen of Shadows, whose foes died with ghastly speed and regularity. He had wondered, sometimes, when a business rival had sickened or met with misfortune, whether Paola's curses had assisted Ucr's blessing, but there had never been any way to tell for certain. He did not even know if the odious Pukar was what he claimed to be, or just a very slick imposter fleecing him.
Yesterday's joys ... Three years ago he had lost the mother and now he was going to lose the daughter. There was no joy in that prospect, no joy today. Alas, he had long ago learned that nothing replaceable was worth a care. All the incomparable wealth he had gathered, and the thing he prized most—
The door of the cellar creaked open.
♦
There were several of them. They let him hear their footsteps moving around him, but took their time before speaking. Despite his confidence, he was strung tight in expectation of sudden bone-shattering agony. "Ready to talk?" growled a low voice. "Mmm?" Even without his familiar mooing mannerism, Eide Ernson always sounded like a hungry, rather sullen, bull. He thought like one, too.
"How may I serve my lord?" Horth was admitting nothing. Any man dangling in a dungeon would address his captor as "lord."
"I want your daughter as wife for... a certain young man." Eide, simple soul, had almost said more than he had been told to say.
"A match approved by my lord would be an enormous honor. But I fear our ancestry is not worthy."
"Yours, no. Do you know who she is, mmm?"
Who else was present? Saltaja included her bovine husband in important meetings only when she needed testimony from a Witness. If a seer were present, Horth must not lie.
"I know. She does not. Her foster mother did not tell me—I made it my business to find out." There were times in negotiation when knowledge must be concealed. There were other times when it could be volunteered to advantage. "I have made it my business to keep abreast of Celebrian affairs ever since. Frena's father the doge rallied somewhat in the spring, but his health still causes great concern. I understand that a successor must be found, but I naturally assumed that one of Frena's brothers would be selected."
Outflanked by unexpected information, the satrap grunted.
"Is he telling the truth?" inquired the throaty voice of Saltaja Hragsdor.
Silence.
"Is he telling the truth?" Eide echoed.
"He is speaking what he believes to be the truth, lord," a woman said in the singsong voice of a seer witnessing. "His information concerning Celebre must be hearsay, as is yours."
"Mmm? Hadn't heard about the doge man rallying before."
Eide and the seer were both in front of Horth, and Saltaja lurked somewhere behind, and very likely there would be Perag or another henchman to wield the club if the meeting turned sour.
"The prisoner's information may be more up-to-date than yours, lord. I can judge only what he believes."
Eide grunted again. "Do you consent to the match, mmm?"
Horth drew a deep breath. "Will my lord do me the honor of describing the young man I shall be so honored to welcome into my house?"
"Who do you expect?" asked the Queen of Shadows.
"It would be absurdly presumptuous of me to—"
"Answer, or I'll have Perag break your legs." Saltaja had the reputation of never bluffing.
"My lady is kind," Horth sighed. "The last I heard from Kosord, the city was preparing to celebrate the imminent initiation of the satrap's youngest son into the Heroes. He is two years older than Frena. Since all your own sons and all your nephews were sent over the Edge as soon as they were blessed, Cutrath would seem to be a very logical candidate to become puppet ruler of Celebre."
"Mmm?" Eide bellowed. "He's been spying on us! Seer, how does he know that?"
"Ask him, my lord."
"How do you know that, prisoner?"
"Speculation based on public knowledge, my lord," Horth said.
"He speaks the truth."
Saltaja's voice cut through like a silver knife. "And do you welcome this match, merchant?"
He drew a deep breath. "No. I have always promised Frena that I would let her choose her husband. Meaning no personal disrespect to your nephew, my lady, for I have never met him, I do not think my foster daughter would favor a Werist."
"So what were you planning to do about it?" The menace was clear.
"Submit, of course! What else could I do about it? You have seers, you have Werists. Could we run away? Leave all my wealth behind? You think I am crazy?"
"Then why have you been packing chests with gold?" Saltaja demanded. "Why did you have them moved aboard a ship in Weather Haven in the night? Why did you send hampers of your clothes and the girl's with them?"
Trapped!
There was no acceptable answer, and Horth remained silent, waiting for the battering to start. They would kill him and take it all, declaring Frena underage and a ward of the satrapy. They had done as much to others before him. He ran sweat and every muscle in his body cringed.
He was saved from having to answer by the voice of the Witness. "I am not normally permitted to volunteer information, but under the circumstances I should advise you that a major storm surge has struck the city. Many sixty have drowned already and this cellar is about to be flooded to the roof."
twenty
FRENA WIGSON
flew out into a yard darkened by the black tent of storm now pitched over the gorge. A deafening flash welcomed her, whirlpools of leaves danced across the stable yard, flights of black birds gyrated in panic, and a steady drum-roll from the stables told of onagers kicking their stalls. Three teams had been harnessed already and old Permiak was struggling to keep them all calm, which was an impossible job in this turmoil, even for a Nastrarian. One of the chariots was hers, all bedecked with ribbons and blossoms in celebration, with Dark and Night harnessed to the yoke. She boarded in a flying leap, holding her skirts up around her knees. She pulled the reins free and smacked the onagers with them in one wild move. The chariot seemed to spring clean off the ground. She hit them again before it came down.
"Mistress!" Verk screamed, sprinting after her.
"You follow!" Her yell was probably lost in another bellow of thunder. She took the gate on one wheel. Lavender fire streaked the clouds. Hauling the whip from its socket, she gave the onagers more hard whacks. They shrieked and went even faster.
The road was empty, of course. No sane person would be outdoors now. Thunder roared, and the first raindrops, big as grapes, splashed icily on her skin. The bridge to Blueflower was straight ahead. It came at her like an arrow, but even as it grew, it faded behind a gray gauze of rain. By the time she reached it water was falling from the sky in rivers, beating on her like sixty-sixty hammers.
Wheels growled as they raced over the timbers. Up on to Chatter Place, another big shipping island. Tearing down a street with not a soul in sight. She lacked her alms bag, her veil, the two lily blossoms, and several other things needed for the ritual. Not to mention the sad state of her dress, her hair, her makeup. These things mattered not to Fabia, because she wasn't going to the Pantheon. She was going to the palace to give Eide and Saltaja a piece of her mind. Two pieces, one each. She was driving under water, barely able to recognize the way from Chatter Place to Eelfisher. Huge swells were running, surging up almost to the bridge deck—indeed, she could see the bridge swaying ahead of her. That was ominous. She glanced seaward and saw only fog.