six

BENARD CELEBRE

was wakened by daggers of light stabbing through his eyelids. For a moment he thought it must be Cutrath coming to kill him, and his heart leaped in terror. But it was only Thod, his depressingly cheerful apprentice, all dewy-faced and doe-eyed.

"Twelve blessings this fine morning, master!"

"And on you," Benard growled. "Water?"

"At once, master!" Darkness returned as Thod dropped the tarpaulin and ran over to the well.

Benard sat up, wincing at the resulting thunderclaps inside his head. He could hear priests warbling morning hymns, accompanied by screaming roosters in the surrounding houses. He could hear voices as people went by on their way to prayers. His shed stood in a corner of the abandoned builders' yard behind the new Pantheon, almost the only empty space in Kosord. As a home it was sadly cramped, just three walls of mud brick and the fourth only a curtain of oiled cloth hung from a beam, but he could work in there in rainy weather. The interior was a catastrophe of clay models, faience figurines, tubs of raw clay, tottering heaps of chisels and mallets, balks of timber, jars of paint, bags of coloring for glazes, boxes, baskets, polychrome tiles, boards for sketching, and gods knew what else. One thing old Master Artist Odok had signally failed to teach his best pupil was tidiness.

Hiddi... His body still hankered after Hiddi. Had she really been the vision she had seemed, or had her beauty been only in the bedazzled eye of her beholder? He must not judge the child for choosing to serve the god of madness. What seemed to him like utter degradation might be better than the life of a peasant's wife, endlessly producing short-lived babies.

Benard dragged himself upright and began picking his way through the disorder. He felt as if he had not slept at all, and apparently he would not be eating today either. His pelf string had held at least a dozen twists of copper last night when he went off with Nils to celebrate, but now it was bare. Even the epochal torment in his head could not have cost that much, so he must have bought matching headaches for half of Kosord. Granted that the priests were better at commissioning work than paying for it, when they did pay him, the sudden riches never lasted long. So he survived on his fee from Thod's family, a bag of meal every sixday, and the next was not due until tomorrow.

If he lived that long.

Werist Cutrath was an infuriating, unnecessary, unwanted complication in the life of a man who wanted nothing more than to spend the entire day chipping stone. Benard's needs were few: his art, his art, and his art. Once in a while he enjoyed a riotous celebration like last night's. He appreciated women, women appreciated him; although most of his friends were humble folk, he had worshiped holy Eriander in some of the best bedrooms in Kosord. There was one woman he loved to desperation but could not have. The last thing he needed was a fight to the death with Cutrath Horoldson, especially when there could be no doubt as to whose death.

He grimaced as Thod opened the drape again, hurling sunlight everywhere. Benard accepted a jug of Kosord's fetid, lukewarm well water and drank greedily. Thod hopefully located a chisel and maul.

"No hammering yet," Benard said. "I need a board."

"At once, master." Thod put a brave face on his disappointment. He liked nothing better than to spend the entire day chipping marble as Benard directed, convinced that this would build muscles to impress the light of his life, Thilia, daughter of Sugthar the potter. Thod was eagerness personified, laboring untiring from dawn to dusk, five days out of six. Whether he possessed enough of an artist's eye to please holy Anziel was another matter.

"But first, run and ask Thranth if I can borrow his good loincloth again. And his sandals!" he shouted as Thod took off like a stone from a sling. Thranth was his brother, a harness maker, and relatively wealthy.

Benard tied up the curtain and squinted out at the day. Although Kosord had no good building stone, it did own a quarry of warm-toned marble that was perfect for sculpting golden Vigaelian bodies. Three great blocks stood around in various stages of completion. Mayn, goddess of knowledge, was the easiest of the Bright Ones to portray, because only Her hands were visible, holding Her traditional distaff and spindle, but he was pleased with the way the stone revealed the woman inside—trailing folds where fabric hung loose, smooth surfaces when it clung to flesh at shoulder or advancing knee, even hints of the face under the veil. Almost as if the marble were transparent. Praise the lady.

Next to Benard's kiln stood a roughly hacked out Sinura, goddess of healing, wrapped in Her snake, but no one except Benard knew that the raw block nearest the shed contained Weru, god of storm and battle, just waiting to be exposed.

By the time Thod came trotting back from his brother's harness shop, Benard was rummaging in his cluttered nest. "You haven't seen my razor anywhere, have you?" Vigaelians reacted badly to black beards.

They found the razor but not the polished scrap of bronze he used as a mirror. In his present state he was likely to skin himself anyway, so he let Thod shave him while he—Ouch!—planned his visit to the palace.

"Lot of teeth lying around the streets this morning," Thod remarked shyly.

"Teeth? ... Um, yes." Ouch! As well as instructing his apprentice in his craft, a master should set a good example of proper civic behavior, but knuckles as bruised as Benard's could not be explained away. Nor could his hangover be concealed. He told the tale, stressing the mitigating circumstances of betrothal celebration and damsel-rescuing, and not mentioning divine intervention.

Thod made admiring noises when he heard about the fight. "Do you know who this rapist was, master?"

"Cutrath Horoldson."

"The satrap's son?" Fortunately Thod was stropping the bronze blade on a fragment of tile at the time, or he might have cut his master's throat. "But he's a Werist! Oh, master, master! That's suicide, to hit a Hero!"

Possibly, but it had been worth it. Since childhood Benard had been waiting for the news that he was either about to be packed off to a home he barely remembered or put to death for something done by someone else. Now he could die happy, remembering Cutrath spread out in the dirt.

"I trust in the lady to help me out of this."

"Praise the Beautiful One!" Thod agreed, looking puzzled.

Benard did not explain, because he wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do. Certainly he was in mortal danger. No Werist, especially one as new to his collar as Cutrath Horoldson, could ignore such an insult. Any other man would flee the city, but Benard was a hostage on parole. The day he failed to report to the palace guard, he would be an outlaw, an escaped prisoner, fair game for anyone. The only people who could possibly restrain Cutrath were his parents. Lady Ingeld would certainly intervene if Benard asked her to, but even a peaceable artist drew the line at hiding behind a woman's skirts, and Cutrath probably wouldn't listen to her anyway.

He would obey his father, but the satrap was no friend of Benard's. Horold might side with his loutish son and specifically order him to avenge the family honor, or he might choose to regard the incident as a criminal offense and sentence the culprit to be flogged, branded, or hanged as the fancy took him. Since no other solution found its way through Benard's thundering hangover, those risks would have to be taken. He was a firm believer that where there was life there was hope.

♦

Hurrying off to the palace, clad in Thranth's smart linen cloth with the sun hot on his back, Benard felt reasonably respectable. He had combed out his black tresses, oiled them, and tied them back with a red headband some girl had given him once, which he had rediscovered a few days ago under a jar of umber pigment. He carried a plank of balmwood that Thod had sanded clean for him. Mud brick would last forever if it was kept dry, but every heavy rain would undermine a wall or two somewhere. As often as not the whole side of the house would then be flattened and rebuilt, raising the level of the street and converting the next flood into a neighbor's problem. Thus, through uncounted generations, Kosord had lifted itself high above the plain. The highest point of all was the temple of holy Veslih, surmounted by the bronze canopy above Her sacred fire. Around that, in splendid confusion of roofs and levels, sprawled the palace and everything else, descending higgledy-piggledy to the outlying shanties of the poor.

The palace was approached up wide steps of bricks glazed white and green and red. More polychrome bricks adorned its walls; sunlight flamed on the bronze pillars flanking its high doorway. Just inside that was the guard room, to which Benard must report each day. In the ten years since he was apprenticed to Master Artist Odok, he had forgotten this duty only once; the unpleasant results had improved his memory dramatically.

At full strength Horold's host numbered more than twenty sixty, although he normally kept only two hunts in Kosord itself, billeting the other three in other cities. His satrapy, covering about a third of the Face, contained many other hosts whose leaders were nominally subordinate to him, but any Werist put in charge of an army soon developed revolutionary ambitions. The Heroes found peace an elusive concept. Even summer training exercises were regarded as failures if they did not get out of hand.

Compared with the rest of the host, the palace guard was a joke, a handful of men too old or maimed to fight plus a number of boys in training, all under the command of Flank-leader Guthlag, who should always be seen as early in the day as possible. Benard found Guthlag on his usual bench, rolling knucklebones and quaffing beer with three young Werists sporting the white sashes and leather collars of cadets. By noon they would owe him a fortune; before sunset they would win it all back. It seemed as if he had made a good start on his drinking already, for his pall had sagged into a clumsy rumple, while the youngsters' looked sculpted, not a fold out of place.

He scowled at his visitor with bleary pink eyes. "Early for you, isn't it? Did you wet the bed or did she just kick you out?"

To any man except a warrior, Benard would have retorted along the lines of "We thought we heard you coming back," but one could never trust a Werist's sense of humor, not even Guthlag's.

He bowed, which made his head throb harder. "Lord, the miserable low-life Florengian beetle reports that he is present as required."

"You were a slug yesterday. How did you get promoted?"

"Lord, that was before she kicked me out."

Elderly Werists were rare. Guthlag Guthlagson—that patronymic meant that his father was either unknown or had refused to acknowledge him—had run with the Kosord host back in the days of State Consort Nars Narson, before the coming of Stralg. Werists were not supposed to outlive their leaders, and Nars's hordeleader had certainly died with him in the massacre. Old Guthlag's survival was never explained.

He was a withered stick now—pate all leathery and chest hair white, skin draped loose on his arms and swollen purple cords disfiguring his legs. His fingers were twisted and his hips stiff, yet he showed none of the dehumanization that Werists called battle hardening. Age had marred him, but only as it marred other men, which suggested that he had done little fighting. Nevertheless, the old warrior did keep the vicious youngsters of the guard in line, and in the past he had been known to cuff ears when the Cutrath rat pack nibbled too hard at the Celebrian hostage. If he knew of the satrap's son being on a blood hunt today, he would certainly drop a warning, but he just rolled his eyes as he saw Benard help himself to a stick of sausage some guard had left on the table unguarded.

"What's that?" He pointed to the plank.

"Just a sketch. May I ask a question, lord? I don't intend to pry into the mysteries of Weru, but—"

"I wouldn't recommend it."

"Of course not, lord. I got into an argument last night—"

"From the look of you I'm not surprised."

"Er, yes, lord. Someone said that Werists could assume their battleform at will, and someone else insisted that they could do so only on the command of their leader. Is that secret information?" What he wanted to find out was how the newly initiated Cutrath was likely to come after him, but he wasn't going to tell that story unless he had to.

The room had chilled perceptibly. Menace stared through pale eyes.

"I suggest," growled Flankleader Guthlag, "that you mind your own business, artist. Have you ever seen a warbeast?"

"No, lord."

"Pray you never do. It is usually a fatal experience for extrinsics." An audience always made the old rogue surly. On his own he was sometimes good company.

Benard bowed. "Yes, lord."

"Show us your picture. These ignorant brutes need some culture."

The cadets scowled at his humor but wisely said nothing. Benard cleared a corner of the table and laid down the slab, which was blank. "I haven't drawn it yet."

"Glad to hear that. Thought I was going blind." The flankleader tried a suck on his straw and pulled a face. He handed the beaker to a cadet, who took it over to the corner to ladle more beer from the krater. "And a new straw!" Even Guthlag could never drink beer straight from the jar, with all its husks, gritty dregs, and yeasty scum.

Benard went to the hearth and fumbled among the cold ashes until he found a few pieces of charcoal. He came back and studied the wood, while silently reciting the invocation.

"You watch this, now," Guthlag mumbled toothlessly. "If you want t'see the blessing of a god at work."

"Goddess!" corrected the largest cadet. "What sort of man would swear to a female god?"

Benard did not hear more. He was reaching back to the day he first came to Kosord—he had been only eight, but visual memory was part of his lady's blessing. He had been very ill, too, not yet recovered from the hardship of the Edgelands, where he and Orlando had almost died, despite the best efforts of poor Dantio being both father and mother to them. They had descended onto bleak and bitter moors near Tryfors. Orlando had been detained there, screaming piteously. Benard had been brought to the court of Satrap Horold, Dantio taken farther downstream to a fate untold.

But it was not his lost family Benard wanted. Nor yet Ingeld, who had mothered him back to life. He struggled to define the other image, and gradually it took shape as if emerging from a white mist of years. He sent his rogation to holy Anziel and felt Her blessing quicken his fingers—fast strokes to define the hard edge of nose and ear and teeth, softer for the rounded edges of cheekbones and neck. Fingertips to smear the shading ... fainter swirls for the flowing blond curls. Darkest of all the brass collar, and then it was done, a three-quarter profile of a man of about thirty, arrogantly aware of his looks. Unlike most Werists, he was clean-shaven and wore his hair long. The sketch even caught the glint of eyes that in life had been a fierce and most brilliant blue. His nose had been curved, then—not the pruning hook of his brother the bloodlord, but a strong, masculine nose. His teeth had been perfect, which was rare.

"Blood!" Guthlag muttered. "Blood and torment! I'd forgot."

"What's a pretty-boy namby doing wearing a Werist collar?" demanded one of the cadets.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" snarled another.

"Blood!" Guthlag roared. "Stupid slugs!"

All three jerked to attention and parroted "My lord is kind!" in unison.

"Don't you know him?"

One by one they recognized the likeness and muttered oaths. The man Benard had recalled was not the creature who had been whirling around his satrapy in a chariot last sixday, celebrating his youngest son's initiation. Perhaps these three apprentice monsters had not fully appreciated what battle hardening could do—and would eventually do to them if they fought enough. This was the first summer Benard could remember when Horold had not been away campaigning. Werists could survive incredible wounds, but every healing left them less and less human. This was their corban.

"He really look like that?"

"That he did," Guthlag snarled. "What'ch goin' do with that, boy?"

"Show it to him," Benard said. "It's an excuse to ask a favor, is all."

"You're out of your mind!"

"Why?"

The flankleader shook his head in disbelief. "You think he wants to be reminded?"

Benard thought about it. "Why not?"

The old Werist growled low in his throat, like a true watchdog. "Better you than me, lad. And in court?"

"Court? Today?" If the satrap would be holding assize and giving audience, Benard must catch him first, or there would be no chance of a private chat before Cutrath found him.

In the distance, horns blew.

"Oh, gods!" Benard grabbed up his sketch and raced out the door.

♦

The great court of the palace was pentagonal, with a covered balcony all around and a center open to the heavens. The walls were formed of panels of brightly glazed tiles depicting people and gods in red, black, white, and green, separated by massive steles inscribed with the laws of holy Demern. Benard had once been friendly with a member of the scribes' guild who had tried to explain to him all the complications of writing: signs that stood for names, signs that meant grammatical elements, signs that meant sounds, and signs indicating how to interpret other signs. It had given him terrible headaches. Add to that, the oldest tongue was so obscure that the meaning of the written law could be deciphered only by Speakers of Demern, who knew it all by divine inspiration anyway.

Until the coming of Stralg, Kosord had been ruled by the consort of the hereditary dynast, who was always a pyromancer—a Daughter of Veslih. The state consort had always been chosen from among the Speakers of Demern, but Horold had banished the cult from his satrapy because a Speaker would automatically denounce him as a usurper. Consequently, although only Speakers were supposed to make legal rulings, Horold acted as his own judge, holding an assize every first-day he was in the city. After distributing justice, he would receive petitions—merchants seeking contracts, landowners wanting to register titles, citizens with disputes to be arbitrated, officeholders aspiring to promotion, and a swarm of miscellanies—until his patience ran out. Humble folk might return every sixday for half a year before he found time to hear their pleas.

Benard reached the door as the second horn call was sounded, meaning the satrap was on his way. With the courtyard so crowded, his chances of receiving a hearing today were remote, and his quarrel with Cutrath could not be presented in public anyway. However, this was the last place Cutrath would think of looking for him, and not even he would dare to commit murder here.

Benard stepped boldly up to the scribes at their high desk to give his name and rank and show his seal. He knew most of the people around the palace, but the chief scribe was new since his day. He was portly, sumptuously robed, piggy head shaved hairless. He waited expectantly, mawkish professional smile slowly fading toward contempt.

"Er..." Benard said. No one would ever be allowed to see the satrap without offering a bribe or two, and he had nothing to offer. "Um. A sketch of your beautiful children? Or your lovely wife?"

A couple of the lesser flunkies were seized by coughing fits. The fat man scowled and colored. "I hardly think so," he said in a shrill soprano. "Wait upstairs."

Benard scurried off, shuddering at his own clumsiness. How could he have been so inept as not to see that? Obviously the gods would die of old age before his name was called now. Tonight he would ask Ingeld to arrange a private audience. Up in the balcony, he located an unoccupied pillar, leaned plank and self against it, and prepared to endure the rest of the day. His hangover deserved to be set in glazed bricks, immortalized in the chronicles of Vigaelia.

As the final blare of horns died in echoes, priests in garishly tinted robes trooped in, chanting psalms. Benard could participate in public rituals like this, which were very different from the carnal sacrifice Hiddi had expected in the temple of Eriander. Even now the slightest thought of Hiddi was enough to send quivers through his groin. He wondered hopefully if he might have been too strict in his interpretation of the rules and made a note to ask Odok, who was head of his lodge and the light of Anziel on Kosord.

Dusky male Florengians, prisoners of war with the cropped ears of slaves, were carrying in baskets of tablets, placing them behind the throne. The pyromancer who brought in the sacred flame was another Florengian, a hostage named Sansya, a few years younger than Benard. He recalled her as a terrified child, arriving at court very shortly before he went off to Odok; now she was a striking young woman, drawing every man's eyes. In Benard's opinion, the flame-colored robes suited her nut-brown skin better than it did the Vigaelians' pink. The jet hair he remembered had turned a rich auburn, but that was a result of her initiation into the Daughters of Veslih. If Ingeld had chosen to stay away and delegate today's augury to a deputy, then no important business was scheduled.

The priests fell silent. Sansya had stopped at the hearth, where logs of fragrant honeywood were stacked ready. She spoke the invocation to Veslih, then knelt to tip the coals from her firepan onto the pyre. Flame and oily smoke spouted up so suddenly that she recoiled and almost overbalanced. A universal wail of surprise dwindled into a worried buzz.

The outburst was fortunately timed, for it muffled Benard's yelp of pain as the point of a dirk jabbed into his left buttock. He spun around to face Cutrath. He should have realized that the first thing the satrap's cub would do would be to ask Guthlag if the hostage had reported in yet today. A major war could not have produced as much blood as there was in young Horoldson's eye, but then, his hangover was working around a badly swollen jaw and no doubt a pounding lump on the back of his skull. Although no one else seemed to notice the confrontation, the space around them expanded as spectators wandered away to greet more distant friends.

"I am going to kill you before the day is out, turd."

"My lord is kind." That wonderful phrase could mean anything, or nothing. "The noble lord understands that his slave was wretchedly drunk."

Useless. Apology was a display of weakness and no apology could excuse an offense as enormous as Benard's.

"I will break every joint in your body, ending with your neck."

He probably could. Benard was beefier, but he lacked the training and the bloodlust. Even if he won at rough-housing, the kid would just battleform or call for help. "My lord is kind."

"No." Cutrath shook his head and winced at the result. "As unkind as possible. Enjoy your last morning, vermin. I'll be waiting outside to begin." He kicked Benard's ankle and stalked away.

Benard sagged back against the pillar again. He had survived the first encounter. The worst danger had always been that Cutrath would come after him in battleform; one warbeast could massacre a whole platoon of extrinsic swordsmen, let alone a solitary sculptor.

The satrap was standing in front of his throne, almost directly below Benard. From that angle Horold did not appear too grotesque, only very large and hairy. An ominous hush had fallen over the court, for Sansya was still kneeling at the fire. It seemed to Benard's untutored eye to be blazing normally now. Someone had primed it with too much oil—that was all, surely?

Horold lost patience. His voice was hoarse and violent, like a bull roar. "I ask you again, Veslihan! Does our holy guardian bless this meeting?"

Reluctantly she rose, still staring uncertainly into the flames. "I don't ... I think ..." Then she gabbled out the required oracle: "My lord holy Veslih blesses this house and welcomes all who draw near in Her name praise the goddess amen." She spun on her heel and fled the hall with red-gold robes rippling, auburn hair streaming. Without question she was on her way to inform Ingeld of whatever she had seen. Nevertheless, she had pronounced the blessing and there was no need for wholesale sacrifice or public penance. Matters could proceed.

"Amen!" shouted the congregation. The satrap took his seat. The scribes settled cross-legged in back of him; the two nearest the throne poised ready with stylus in hand and freshly rolled layers of clay ready on their boards.

"Begin!" roared the bull.

The herald called out the name of the noble Huntleader Darag Kwirarlson—the satrap's men would always be given precedence, even ahead of criminal matters. Darag petitioned his dread lord for a monopoly on pepper imported into Kosord and its purlieus for the next twelve years, free of all taxation or royalty. He gave no reason why he should profit in this way, and Horold did not ask for discussion.

"We gladly grant this petition of the valiant son of Kwirarl."

The scribes' styli jabbed rapidly at the clay. The keeper of seals came forward to mutter over their chicken tracks and approve them. The tablets were then removed to be baked and more were brought.

After Darag came two other Werists, appealing for amendments to the records of certain lands they had somehow acquired. Horold did ask for objections this time, but no one was foolish enough to raise any. The effect of the change seemed to be that the free peasants currently dwelling on those lands were henceforth bound to remain there as serfs, they and their descendants forever. The tablets were approved.

Horold's seal was much like Benard's, a stone cylinder about the size of a finger joint with a hole bored through the length of it for a thong and a picture carved on the outside. Rolled over wet clay, seals recorded their distinctive images. Benard's was made of agate and showed a hawk in flight, a symbol of his goddess; the satrap's would be of more valuable stone—onyx or chalcedony—with images of a wild boar. Horold's carried a lot more power.

Next came a footpad, a youth who had bludgeoned a traveler to death for the sake of his purse. He denied the charge; the Witness testified that he was guilty. Horold did not even call for the appropriate law to be read, because everyone knew the penalty was impalement. When the deadly little cylinder had sealed his fate, the boy was led away weeping.

So it went. The satrap never demanded to hear the relevant decrees of holy Demern, probably in case the scribes would not be able to read the appropriate panel, or even find it. More often he asked for precedents, and then they would consult the tablets in their baskets and mutter among themselves before advising him what penalty his predecessors had imposed in similar cases. Benard, when not struggling to stay awake, was impressed. The bloody-handed tyrant was doing a fair job of maintaining law without divine guidance. Ominously, evidence that a brawl had been begun by a gang of Werists was ruled irrelevant, but any man would favor his cult brothers over extrinsics. Apart from that bias, the satrap accepted the seer's evidence, listened to the accused's excuses or explanations, then decreed no more than the legal penalty, sometimes less: once when he sentenced a debtor to slavery, he let the man's wife and children return to her family instead of being sold, too.

At times he even displayed the cruel humor Benard so well remembered. A young cobbler was convicted of rape, for which the standard penalty was castration. His wife and parents entered a plea for clemency on the grounds that he was an only child and still lacked an heir to carry on the family. The victim had suffered no permanent harm or pregnancy and her husband had accepted her back to his bed. Horold inquired about precedents. Tablets were clattered and a scribe reported that State Consort Nars had never reduced or postponed sentence in rape cases.

"But were any of them cobblers?" the satrap inquired. "Cobblers work sitting down. Cut off his feet instead. He won't catch any more victims then. May holy Eriander bless his marriage. Next."

♦

Flankleader Guthlag said "Come!" and peeled Benard off his pillar. "I had a word with the chancellor. You're next!" He pushed Benard's shoulder with a gnarled hand.

"But ..." But he didn't want ... But, but, but ... Clutching his sketch, Benard went downstairs with Guthlag.

Satrap Horold cut off the current defendant in mid-whine. "Forty lashes. Next?"

"A petition, lord," the herald said uneasily. "The hostage Benard Celebre."

"Hostage?" the satrap repeated in disbelief. He scowled with bestial little eyes at the supplicant creeping forward on hands and knees. "Little Bena! You may rise." That meant Benard could sit back on his heels instead of keeping his face on the floor.

"My lord is kind."

"You have grown."

So had he. He had always been big, but now he was as gross as an ox, spread out in all directions, although what he had added seemed to be more bone and brawn than fat. His purple pall concealed most of his torso, but all visible parts of him bristled with coarse yellow hair, like ripe barley, and this shrubbery almost covered his Werist brass collar and the numerous bands of gold wrapped around his bulging limbs. Even his eyebrows had spread up his forehead. His boots obviously did not contain human feet; the proudly curved nose Benard had sketched had vanished into a snout, the lower half of his face protruding between two jutting tusks.

The monster sighed. "The years pass! Master artist? Sworn to Anziel? This was well done."

"My lord is kind." Amazingly so.

"All Florengians are artists, not fighters. That was what we were told. You suppose my brother still believes that?" The piggy eyes glinted dangerously.

"My lord, I am ignorant of such matters." The Florengian war was far away and what Bloodlord Stralg believed was of no interest to Benard.

"A hostage should keep himself better informed. Well, what do you want?"

That was what a sixty of much worthier petitioners were wondering.

"My lord is aware," Benard said, this being the formula for I'm sure you don't know, "that his lowly servant has been contracted to supply statues of the Bright Ones for the new Pantheon."

"I know the priests talked me out of a wagonload of gold for some useless project." The satrap clicked claws impatiently on the arm of his throne. "What of it?"

"Holy Weru, lord. As my lord is the light of Weru on Kosord, I had hoped he would give his slave direction on how the majestic Weru should be portrayed. I presumed to bring a sketch... lord..."

He gestured to the herald who had taken his board from him. The man approached and knelt to show it to the beast on the throne. Satrap Horold, with his snout and tusks and evil little piggy eyes, looked down at the godlike face he had possessed fifteen years ago.

He grunted. Then he beckoned Benard to rise and approach the throne. This was a signal honor, but it involved no small danger. As Guthlag had hinted, Horold might decide he was being mocked and disembowel Benard with one slash of his paw.

"When did you do this?" he asked, in a low, slurred growl. He had trouble speaking below a bellow.

"This morning, lord."

The ancient throne of Kosord was not an especially high seat, yet Benard had to look up to see the giant's tusks, and it was an effort not to pull faces at his rank animal stench.

"From memory?"

"Yes, lord."

"Incredible."

"My lord is kind."

"Describe this new Pantheon."

"My lord, the gods will stand above their respective shrines ..." Life-size freestanding statuary was a new art form, an idea imported from Florengia. Before the war, Vigaelian artists had rarely ventured beyond bas-relief or faience figurines. Since man-size statues could not be packed over the Edge, artists like Odok and now Benard were working from sketches and making up the rest as they went along. They could follow old traditions or flaunt them almost at will.

"How big are these figures?"

"The priests wanted human—I mean—life size, my lord." Sweat, fool!

"And wearing what?"

"Whatever tradition and the priests require, lord." Benard must be careful not to get carried away in describing this wonder he was to create. A man must keep all his wits about him when dealing with a despot. "With appropriate attributes. Some clothed ... some not."

"What will Weru be wearing?"

"Whatever my lord directs."

"Then show Weru unclothed."

"My lord is kind."

While Benard considered how to ask for an edict of protection while he worked without mentioning Cutrath, the satrap forestalled him.

"Give him a sword—but no collar for a god, of course." The monster's jowls distorted in what might have been a smile. A long black tongue came out and washed his tusks. He snuffled. "You have given me grave offense in the past, little Bena. What misdeeds have you been up to now that you suddenly seek my favor?"

There was no possibility of lying in the presence of a Witness. Benard found enough saliva to whisper, "Uh. My lord's most miserable slave, while drunk, used... er... insulting language to my lord's glorious son, the magnificent warrior Cutrath Horoldson, and now fears for his life... my lord."

The monster chuckled and scratched a hairy ear with a curved talon. "I should hope so. That's all?"

"May it please my lord."

"Seer?"

The white-shrouded Witness glided closer without interrupting her spinning. "Lord?"

"What really happened?"

"My lord!" Benard wailed. Not here!

"Silence!" snarled the satrap.

"The artist challenged your son to a fight over a woman and knocked him out cold, lord."

Seers did not whisper. All the court heard.

It held its collective breath.

Horold snuffled. He opened and closed a fist a few times; the long black claws seemed to extrude farther. "My son?" he croaked. "This trash did? When?"

"Just before dawn."

"Who saw this?"

"The woman, and two warriors of Cutrath's flank."

Benard waited to die. The satrap's own questions had exposed both himself and the heir he had so recently honored to utter ridicule. A Werist's normal reaction to such insult would be lightning homicide, and Horold was visibly trembling with the effort needed to maintain control. But such public violence would make matters even worse, showing how deeply he had wounded himself. His piggy eyes scanned the appalled court, seeking any hint of a smirk or a snigger. He released a long breath ...

"Well, that is most interesting! Where is my son now?"

"Up in the gallery near the west stair, my lord." The seer stopped her spinning long enough to wind the thread up on the spindle.

"Herald, call for Cutrath Horoldson."

Benard wondered why his jangling emotions had not knocked the seer flat on her back by now. Was Horold going to let Cutrath perform the execution? With his teeth ...

"Artist!"

"My lord?"

"Weru is patron god of Kosord. You will make the Terrible One twice as tall as any of the others. More than twice."

But my contract with the priests ... "My lord is kind. Alas, the marble..."

"What of the marble?" The satrap's roar echoed. The congregation shimmered back a pace, but Benard could do nothing but sweat faster.

"The blocks are already cut or on order, my lord. And the difficulties of transporting so large a block, and of finding a large enough slab which is not marked by unsightly veins of mineralization—"

"Scribe, record that the hostage Benard is to be supplied with transportation to our marble quarry and all the help he needs to cut the block he selects and transport it back to Kosord, all at our expense. Advise the guard that his parole is extended to permit this. Give him coppers to ..." The black lips curled again. "No, not our little Bena! I'll send someone more responsible along to take care of the expenses."

"My lord is kind!" This was better than anything Benard could have dreamed of! A journey to the quarry could probably be spun out indefinitely. Cutrath would have to wait.

"Your escort can also make sure you find your way home safely. Herald, return that sketch to him when he leaves." Evil porcine eyes studied Benard for a moment. "Take it to our wife. Let her have it as a keepsake. Ah, my misbegotten excuse for a warrior son approaches."

Not having been summoned as "Warrior Horoldson," Cutrath was creeping forward like a civilian.

"You may rise," his father said.

"My lord is kind." Cutrath sat back on his heels and stared agonizing death at Benard.

"Always," the satrap growled. "You pride yourself on your manly physique, do you not?"

"My lord is—"

"Answer!"

Cutrath choked, as if he were about to vomit from sheer rage. "I believe I am not unworthy of my noble ancestry, my lord."

"Girls tell you how handsome and strong you are?"

"Some do, my lord."

"How many, exactly?"

"Um ... Two?" Cutrath whispered, eyeing the seer uneasily.

"Have any ever called you a useless runt?" Horold roared.

His son shuddered and seemed to shrink. "None, my lord."

"They should be more perceptive. Our artist hostage here needs a model for his portrayal of holy Weru. You will pose for Benard. As often and as long as he requires. Nude! Scribe, record this edict. Record, also, that the artist remains under my mercy. This forbiddance applies to all members of our host. There will be no inexplicable accidents, Cutrath! No beatings in dark alleys."

"My lord is kind." He was white to the lips.

"You think so? You have disgraced all the Heroes of Kosord. Report to Huntleader Kwirarlson for punishment and beg him not to demean you further with any show of clemency. Scribe, we are indebted to the hostage Benard Celebre for exposing the worthlessness of our son." Horold tugged off one of his gold armbands. "Record also that we give him this ring as a token of our favor. Next case."

The entire court exploded in roars of approval as the smarmy courtiers cheered the satrap's leniency and wonderful generosity. They quite drowned out Benard's astonished thanks. He bowed and backed away from the throne, wondering what in the world he was supposed to do with a slab of gold.