Children of Chaos

Prologue

LORD DANTIO

was very frightened, clutching the rail as tightly as he could—much tighter than he needed to, because the chariot ran smoothly on the paving and Papa was not going fast. The axle squealed, the guanacos’ little hooves clip-clopped, wheels rumbled, the leather straps of the floor creaked, but that was all. No other sound.

When news of the massacre at Two Fords reached Celebre, the city went mad. For three days and nights the people mourned, clamoring and wailing, blowing trumpets, beating on drums or pots. Panic-stricken crowds packed into the temples until worshipers were being trampled or suffocated. But then, suddenly, the enemy was at the gates and the noise stopped. The city fell silent—completely, appallingly, silent.

Yet everywhere there were faces, thousands and thousands of faces—massed on balconies and roofs, in every window, and ten or twelve deep along both sides of the wide avenue—and they were all staring at him. All silent. Could they not even call out just one farewell, sing a dirge for him, shout a blessing? The entire city seemed to have turned out to watch his departure. He stared straight ahead, trying to ignore all the faces and keep his eyes fixed on the great gates drawing closer up ahead. He was horribly afraid that he was going to weep, or throw up, or piddle, or do something even more terrible to shame himself and Papa.

Almost there, Papa said. You are doing wonderfully! I am enormously proud of you.

Dantio looked up, feeling his lip quiver. Despite all the promises he had made to himself, he had to say it: Papa, I’m scared!

His father winced, as if he’d stubbed a toe. You don’t look it! I told you—courage is simply doing your duty even if you are frightened. By all the gods, son, you are a very brave boy doing his duty.

Brave people did not tremble. Their mouths were not drier than salt.

Don’t let the crowds worry you, his father said. They’re counting on you, son. The whole city is counting on you. And so am I. I am so proud of you I want to weep. Celebre is proud of you.

At last the chariot rumbled under the great arch into the narrow barbican, out of blazing sunlight into the shadow of high battlements. There were no soldiers up there manning the walls, because Celebre’s city guard had died with the militia at Two Fords. The noise of hooves and axle redoubled, echoing. Papa slowed down to take the curve through the outer gate.

Dantio took a quick look back. The second chariot was bringing Mama and the baby, driven by a Nastrarian in his green robe. Witness Fiorella, wearing her seer’s blindfold, was driving the third, bringing Benard and Orlando. Benard’s face was only just visible over the rail; he looked scared, although he had nothing to worry about—he would be coming back. Orlando was too small to see over the sides of the car at all. He would be peering out through the wicker and probably throwing a temper tantrum because he had been strapped in.

One flap of the outer gate stood open and unguarded as the doge and his eldest son rolled past them, out into the menacing world beyond, into the noontide glare. Goodbye, Celebre! The open expanse around the city served variously as fairground, playing fields, and farmers’ market, but that day it was deserted, just abandoned animal paddocks and grassland already burned brown by the dry-season heat. The Sturia road was a stripe of baked red clay weaving across it to disappear into olive groves and vineyards.

Papa drove at a walking pace on the rutted surface. There was no sign of the ice devils, but they would be waiting in the shade, staying out of bowshot of the walls.

Holy Demern, the Lawgiver, had decreed in ancient times that a boy of ten was old enough to understand oaths and laws. At ten he could be sentenced to men’s punishments, like flogging or even hanging. He could be taken hostage.

Dantio was eleven.

He did not know where he would sleep tonight. He could not shake off the terrible fear that he might never see his home and family again. At his feet lay a bag of clothes Mama had packed for him. The ice devils had spared the little town of Sturia when it opened its gates and yesterday had promised to spare Celebre too, but they had warned they would demand hostages.

A chariot emerged from the trees, being driven much faster than Papa was going. The two men in it were obviously not Florengians, so they must be ice devils. Another followed it, more slowly. Dantio’s knees began to shake even harder, and not just from the bouncing of the webbed floor.

That’s far enough. Papa reined in alongside a corral fence and dropped the brake. He went down on one knee and clasped his son in a fierce hug. Well done, well done! That was the worst bit, I’m sure—all those people watching you.

Dantio did not think the worst bit had even started. He nodded and tried not to cry, biting his lip. His father’s mourning robe smelled of lavender. It was the one he wore to funerals.

"Even if the Vigaelians do insist on taking you as hostage for my good faith, son, they will have to look after you well. Holy Demern gives very strict rules in His Arcana about hostages being well treated. Oh, Dantio, Dantio! We Celebrians are peace-lovers, not cowards. If we had any chance at all of defending the city, we would do it. If the bloodlord will take me instead of you, I will go gladly, but that was not what his messenger demanded.

And I swear to you again, son, that I will do nothing to break the terms we agree on. I will give them no cause to harm you. And in a year or so, when they have learned that they can trust me, I will try to get them to send you home and take some other hostages in exchange—young men, not a child.

Dantio sniffed a few times and whispered, Yes, Papa.

His father squeezed again and then released him. You aren’t behaving like a child. Keep being brave, always be polite, and no harm will come to you. Come along, let us go and see these Vigaelians.

Dantio jumped down, onto his shadow on the clay, and Papa followed. The other two chariots had halted alongside, and the Nastrarian was already in control of all three teams, stroking the guanacos’ necks and murmuring as if he were talking to them. Being an initiate of the cult of holy Nastrar, he probably was talking to them; he would keep them standing there happily for hours, and be quite happy himself just doing so. Nastrarians never cared for people much.

Papa lifted Mama down, with Fabia still in her arms. Benard ran at once to his mother. Witness Fiorella unstrapped Orlando and set him down without letting go of him—she had no need to call on the wisdom of her goddess to know he would try to run away. He screamed and kicked. She would be needed in the parley, so Dantio went to take charge of Orlando. It would be for the last time.

Come, he said. Come and see the ice devils. They’re very fierce.

The family terror decided that this sounded promising and went quietly. He even let Dantio hold his chubby little hand, although that would not last long.

The first ice devil chariot had stopped at a distance. One man had stayed aboard to control the team and the other was striding forward to meet the Celebrians. He was unarmed and very big. Some of the wilder stories had described the Vigaelians as monsters, but this one seemed quite human, apart from his bizarre coloring. He wore what seemed to be a black woolen blanket wrapped around his body, leaving his arms and legs bare. His head and face glinted with golden stubble; sunlight flashed on a golden collar around his neck. His eyes were a sickly blue. He stopped and looked around, waving angrily for the other chariot to hurry.

He had bigger muscles than even Markeo, the palace wheelwright.

Markeo had died at Two Fords.

Why is that man red? Orlando demanded.

The sun burned him, Dantio said.

Why?

Because. Dantio had heard that the ice devils’ skin was pink instead of brown, and he could see that some parts of the man were pale, but most of him was blistered and peeling. He glanced back and saw the roofs and walls of Celebre packed with people, watching to see what would happen, waiting to learn their fate.

The second ice devil chariot arrived, and stayed just long enough to deliver a very oddly dressed person, draped from top to toe in cloth that had once been white. Since even her face was completely covered, she must be a seer. She scrambled down awkwardly, but more as if hampered by her long skirts than as if she were blind. How could she stand such clothes on such a hot day? Her driver drove the chariot away and she minced forward to stand at the big man’s side. Only her hands showed; they were pink.

‘Anto, is that man hurt? Orlando demanded. He must think she was bandaged.

No, she’s a seer, like Fiorella, Dantio said.

Orlando turned to frown up at Fiorella, who wore a respectable ladylike gown of dark brown and a blindfold to show she was on duty. Witnesses saw with the eyes of their goddess.

Papa bowed. I am Doge Piero, ruler of this city. I have come to parley, as we agreed, and have brought all my children, as you requested.

The white-shrouded woman spoke. She would not be able to speak Florengian, or even properly know the words, but seers could always tell meaning, just as they could hear lies or recognize poison in a glass of wine. The man in black scowled and replied in a deep, rumbling voice, as if he were gargling rocks. When he had finished, Fiorella translated.

He says he is Stralg Hragson, bloodlord of the Heroes of Weru, and he did not come to parley. He never requests, he gives orders. He is here to accept your submission and oath of allegiance.

Papa said, I have agreed to give them. And he promised he would swear to respect our lives, property, and laws.