Mama said, "What happens to us does not matter, Piero. Remember what you told Dantio about courage. You must not give the monster any excuse to sack Celebre!"
Papa said, "I will yield my children."
The Vigaelian seer had translated it all. The bloodlord sneered and set Orlando down. Orlando decided he did not like Vigaelians after all and ran to join the others mobbing Mama, wanting his share of attention.
Dantio was not going to be alone! He would have Mama and the others for company. He felt a wonderful rush of happiness at that and hated himself for it. What sort of slimy worm was he, to enjoy having his family share his misfortune? But he would not be alone.
He ran to help. He picked up Orlando. "We are going for another ride in a chariot—won't that be fun?" He took Benard's hand. "Come, Bena! Say goodbye to Papa. We have to go with the nasty man. Don't be afraid. Mama is coming with us, and I will help her look after you."
Part I
♦
Spring
♦
one
BENARD CELEBRE
was not looking for trouble, far from it. But a woman screamed.
Benard spun right around and headed back along the alley. Nils, who had been shambling unsteadily beside him, took a moment to realize that he was now alone. He hurried back to wrap both hands around his friend's thick arm and pull. "No!" he said. "Not at all. No trouble, Benard. Benard, they are warriors! There are three of them! They will shred you." As Nils was not only slighter, but even drunker, he found himself being towed along the alley willy-nilly. They and some friends had set out at sunset to celebrate Nils's betrothal to the palace's head cook's daughter and had done so most thoroughly. Benard was hoarse from singing and the world had been awash in beery good cheer—until that scream.
Despite predawn weariness and the somber shadow filling the alley, the air was still as muggy as a sweat house; birds darted after insects and crickets chirped in the thatch. Already a lurid red filled the eastern sky. Most people slept, true, but there was enough light for Benard to know that the raucous thugs he had passed a moment before at a tavern door were warriors. He had not realized that they had a woman with them. And she had not screamed until now.
"Benard!" Nils pleaded. "They are Werists. They are initiates. They are armed, Benard! They will smash you!"
There might be something in what the carpenter said. A gentle, peace-loving artist really ought not pick a quarrel with brass-collar Werists. Benard was not in the habit of getting into fights, although he had a notable flair for finding trouble. Three warriors? That seemed a lot, even in his present liquaceous condition, when he could barely find his ringers, let alone count on them.
Then the woman screamed again and the men laughed louder. Benard sped up.
Clinging like a vine to a tree, Nils bleated shrilly. "Benard! At this time of night there's only one sort of woman in the streets. She knows what she's doing. And you can't help anyway."
Reluctantly, Benard decided that his small friend was right. He really ought to head back to his shed and get some sleep. Unfortunately, he reached that decision just as he turned the corner and saw her. He could never refuse beauty, and this girl was lovely. Gorgeous, breathtaking, spectacular—young and lithe, struggling in the grip of a hulking lout twice her size. The brute was behind her, clutching her to his chest with one arm and reaching inside her wrap to play with her breasts. His equally large friends stood around laughing at the sport.
Their flaxen hair and beards were cropped short to deny handholds to enemies. They wore the brass collars of Weru and the absurd garments called palls, which were merely lengths of cloth wound around their torsos and over their shoulders, leaving their limbs bare. Werists' palls were striped in colors that proclaimed the wearers' ranks and allegiances. Benard recognized only the purple of Satrap Horold Hragson, who ruled both the city and its garrison—officially for his brother, Stralg, but in reality for his sister, Saltaja Hragsdor.
Had he been granted a little longer to think—say, a pot-boiling, in his present condition—Benard might have come up with some witty or original opening remark, but instead he bawled out the first cliche that came into his head.
"Take your filthy hands off her!"
Nils disappeared like a shooting star.
Drunk or not, the three warriors surrounded Benard instantly. He realized that the one tormenting the girl was Cutrath Horoldson, and things could get no worse after that. Last sixday all Kosord had celebrated the coming-of-age and initiation of the satrap's son, because Horold Hragson had made it known that he would look with disfavor on anyone who chose not to. Apparently Cutrath and his cronies were still celebrating. Drunk or sober, they were equally dangerous.
Ever since Benard's arrival in Kosord fifteen years ago, Cutrath had been his personal plague. Although several years Benard's junior, Cutrath had been protected by his high birth and supported by a pack of eager followers, whose mission it was to make the despised Florengian hostage's life eternal torment. Only when Benard had escaped into apprenticeship and Master Odok's house had he been relatively free of his persecutor. Even then, Cutrath and his mob had known that Benard must report to the palace at least once each day, and had often lain in wait for him.
Now the little shit had become an enormous shit, initiated into the Heroes of Weru at minimum age because his father was the satrap and his uncle was Bloodlord Stralg. Now he could be a lot worse than just obnoxious. His pall was of finer weave than his companions', the shoulder straps of his scabbard were decorated with faience plaques, and he wore tooled leather ankle boots instead of regulation sandals. He clutched the woman's arm with one hand, ignoring her struggles. He was not too drunk to recognize his longtime favorite victim.
"What did you say, Florengian scum?"
Benard was sobering rapidly, if too late. Only his goddess could save him now. Alas, what could the lady of art do against the god of battle? He stole another wondering glance at the girl and hastily began the major invocation— praying in silence, of course, for pleas to one's god were part of the mysteries.... great Her majesty and in infinity the realm of Her blessing ... She is star of the horizon and fair path amid the storm ...
Aloud, he said, "I said you've got my girl. You all right, Hilde?" He had no idea if that was her name. It was just a sweet-sounding name for a beautiful girl. Everything looked red in the predawn glare, but he, of all people, should have realized sooner that her wrap was scarlet, which meant that Nils had been right—he was about to be massacred for trying to save a harlot from a rambunctious customer. But her loveliness ought to attract the pity of holy Anziel, even if his own merit did not. He hurried through the intercession ... brandish the rainbow and shape the wind... She hears his appeal and bends Her sight as the hawk rides the morning ...
"No," Cutrath said, "she is not all right. She will shortly be even less right. And you shall be much worse. She is not your girl and when I have done with you, you won't have any use for a girl anyway."
"He never did," said one of the others, and they all guffawed.
Now open the door that thy servant configures, by the eyes of a serpent, the plumage of kingfishers ...
"On your knees, Celebrian slug." Cutrath was almost a head taller than Benard, although no wider. His hair and downy beard were the color of campfire flames; he had been a beautiful child before his nose and ears were smashed for the sixtieth time.