Irona 700 (2 page)

Her dilemma was solved by the girl in front of him, who had heard or seen what he was doing and turned to watch.

“Please? Just one mouthful?”

“Certainly not,” he said. “I brought six bags and had to carry two of them myself. You should have thought to bring more. But, here, take the empty one. You can have it as a keepsake. I don't need it.”

The canteen he offered her was made of fine goatskin with brass fittings, worth a lot of money. The girl's reply was a vulgarity that Irona had heard a few times around the harbor in Brackish.

“Bitch,” he said. “Slut. You really think the goddess would ever choose trash like you?” He dropped the canteen and left it.

That ended their conversation. The weary journey dragged on. Trumpets and drums. Irona had been forced to come all this way just to walk across a bridge? What good did it do? The Seventy were tyrants, Sklom said, forcing people to do things like this just to show that they were the bosses. They could just as easily pick some rich kid in private and do away with all the pretense of the goddess choosing. Sklom was very brave to say that, because blasphemy could cost a man a flogging or worse.

Irona turned, feeling her hair tugged by the girl behind her.

“What do you do with all this hair?”

The speaker's tunic was grimy now, and sweat stained, but had been fine once and would be again, after a good wash. She spoke with a curious lilt, much like the tall boy in red and gold. Her own hair was curly, cut short.

“I keep it,” Irona said. “What do you do with yours?”

The girl pouted and did not answer the question. “I'm Milosa Fotaz.”

“I'm Irona Matrinko.”

“That's not a Benesh name. And you talk funny.”

“I'm from Brackish.”

“You're not supposed to be here unless you were born in Benign.”

“Brackish is part of Benign.”

“Even if it is, which I don't believe,” said the tall lad in front, who could not have helped overhearing, so closely were they packed, “how many Chosen have ever come from Brackish?”

While Irona was not enjoying the conversation, it did make a change from silent moping. “The Seventy added Brackish to the city about ten years ago. Who are you, and where are you from?”

“I'm Nis Puol Dvure. I live in the Dvure Palace. My great-grandfather was a Chosen, and so was his great-grandfather.”

“I don't suppose the goddess will make the same mistake three times.”

“That's blasphemy. If the priests hear you, you'll get whipped, probably branded.”

“Would make a pleasant change,” Irona said wearily. Nis Puol Dvure might be as rich as the Seventy, as tall and handsome as a god, with shiny black curly hair, and teeth bright as sunlight, but compared to Sklom's, his arms were
twigs
. They were also badly burned, like his neck, suggesting that Nis Puol Dvure was not accustomed to spending all day in the summer sun.

Pilgrims were fainting now, even some of those already up on the stage, waiting to parade past the goddess. There the priests could remove them, but they had no way to bring aid to those who collapsed on the long ramp, so their neighbors either sat them in the shade of the wall with their heads on their knees, or just stepped over them and kept on going.

As the third trek along the courtyard brought Irona level with the platform and close to the action, she was able to make out details of the ritual. First, the pilgrims were lined in a groups of ten by the priests. When their bugle sounded, they would file over to a huge marble box, elaborately carved and big enough to be a sea lion's coffin; each pilgrim in turn would reach in through a hole in the top to obtain a token that flashed gold in the sunlight. When they had reached the middle of the spindly bridge and bowed, they tossed the token into the goddess's jade bowl. Because of the tilt of the bowl, the token slid to the front edge and shot down the golden cataract between her knees, which acted as a chute. At the bottom it vanished into a hole, no doubt into some temple crypt for storage until next year. The newly recognized citizen was then free to run the rest of the way across the bridge and head for the stairs.

Every ten groups of ten the drummers at the back of the platform would drum. That was all. Irona Matrinko was being baked alive just so the priests could watch her play this silly game?

“How many?” she muttered. Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak. The sun was almost setting. It would be long after dark before she found Father and they got home to Brackish.

“Five hundred forty since I entered the temple,” said Nis Puol Dvure. “This choosing is lasting longer than any in centuries. Maybe ever.”

“I wish she …” Irona wished Caprice would make her holy mind up, but decided not to finish the sentence.

“We must be patient. Obviously the goddess knows exactly who she wants and is waiting for him to arrive.”

Nis Puol Dvure had no doubts who that man was.

Eventually the ordeal ended. Irona was at the end of the ramp, at a gate manned by more gray-robed, shaven-scalped priests.

“Name?”

She could hardly find enough spit to make the words. “Irona Matrinko.”

He blinked. “That is not a Benesh name. Where were you born?”

“In Brackish.” If he tried to send her away after she had come all this way and stood all these hours in this heat, she was going to hammer his shiny skull up and down on the marble a few times. Just watch her!

“Brackish?” He looked to another priest and received a shrug. Perhaps neither of them had ever heard of Brackish. “Oh, very well. You were born in 684? Do you swear to obey the laws? Stand there. Next.”

She advanced onto the wide platform to stand behind the long bony back of Nis Puol Dvure. He was too skinny to make a good shade tree. The trial was nearly over. Her head throbbed with the worst headache she had ever known. She could not swallow. She was fourth in her group. There were two more groups lined up ahead of hers. The group going through was almost done.

The trumpet sounded. The next line surged forward.

Why groups of ten? Why drums, why trumpets? Just so that the priests could know how many sixteen-year-olds there were in Benign? Who cared?

The boy in the lead arrived at the coffer and reached in through the hole in the top, having to insert his entire arm to the shoulder. If there were so few tokens left now, Irona wondered, would she be able to reach them at all? He brought out what she now saw was a shiny brass disk about the size of a man's palm. He hurried onto the bridge, bowed, dropped the token, and kept going, not even watching where it went. It clattered into the bowl and slid away. By the time it disappeared into the hole at the bottom, the boy had reached the far end of the bridge, practically skipping in his joy at being released. His friends must have a party planned for him, thought Irona. The girl behind him was already throwing her token into the goddess's bowl.

One more line followed, and then it was Irona's group's turn to head to the big coffer. As their leader reached in, the girl behind him, the one who had begged Nis Puol Dvure for a mouthful of water, slid to the pavement in a faint, almost cracking her head on the corner of the box. The crowd made no sound.

Without waiting for the priests to come and remove her, Nis Puol Dvure stepped over her. In spite of his height, he, too, had to insert his arm all the way to his shoulder. Then he straightened up, clutching his brass disk. Smiling, he walked onward to the bridge.

Irona reached into the big stone box as far as her arm would go. Her fingers fumbled around in vain for something to grip. A hand grabbed her wrist. Something cold and metallic was thrust into her hand. She squeaked in fear and let go. The grip on her wrist tightened. The token was offered again.

She took it, and her wrist was released. She brought up her hand, clutching the brass disk, and ran onto the bridge, eager to get this over with and unwilling to look down, because the railings seemed flimsy and the ground was a long way below. She saw Nis Puol Dvure toss his token into the bowl and watch confidently as it fell.

And fell. Just like the others, it slid down the golden chute and vanished. He stood there as if stunned, gaping in disbelief. Irona shoved him impatiently until he moved away. She threw her disk in turn and hurried after him. She had not taken two steps before the temple erupted in a thunder of drums and trumpets, cheers from thousands of voices. Bewildered, she turned to look back.

Her token had not fallen. It had remained in the goddess's bowl, miraculously stuck to the jade. Holy Caprice had granted a miracle to indicate that this was her choice. Irona looked at the priests on the far side and thought that they seemed as surprised as she felt. She did not know why the token had not fallen, but she was much more inclined to believe in priestly trickery than divine providence. Why would the goddess ever choose an ignorant, illiterate, impoverished girl from a remote outport, barely even part of the city? No, Nis Puol Dvure had been the intended Chosen and something had gone wrong. That girl in front of him had not been supposed to faint.

A youth in a pleated sea-green tunic strode out from behind the goddess and came to the end of the bridge, waiting there for Irona, grinning widely and beckoning. She couldn't spend the rest of her life where she was, so she walked forward, and now the bridge seemed to sway far more than it had before.

He wore a collar of jade plates around his neck and held another like it in his hands. He also had a gold bracelet on his right wrist, a silver anklet on his left ankle, a ruby in one ear, and a sapphire in the other. He had bulgy eyes that made him look like an owl trying not to laugh.

“I'm Zard 699.”

That number was written in silver characters on his collar.

“Irona Matrinko.”

“Then welcome, Irona 700.” He put the collar he held around her neck and closed with a click. “Too loose, of course,” he said. “They always make them big, just in case, but tomorrow they'll adjust it to fit you properly.”

The edges of the plates were smooth, not sharp, but the collar itself was cold, heavy, and alien.

The crowd was still roaring and cheering.

“Let them take a look at you, 700. Wave. And smile! All your worries are over. You're rich. You're made for life.”

No, her life was finished. Father, Mother, brothers, sisters … and, worst of all, Sklom! All taken from her. Would she ever see any of them again? Even if she found a chance to run away, how could she get the awful collar off her neck?

“Come,” Zard said. “Water and shade. You are allowed some time to compose yourself.”

The offer was irresistible. Irona nodded and let him take her by the hand and lead her around the great statue, into the cool darkness of the temple.

“That's enough for now,” Zard said, still smiling.

He had brought her to a small room, whose windows were masked by slatted shutters, making the interior cool and dim. Walls and floor were decorated with gaudy tiles, in complex patterns she could not make out and did not care about. She had slumped down in a huge padded chair, almost a bed, and Zard had handed her a beaker of water, which she downed like a scupper.

Holding out the beaker for a refill, she noticed that it was faceted like the broken ice she had chipped off
South Wind
's cables in the northern seas. She had never seen colorless glass before. Zard poured water from a large jug, also glass. This time the drink was flavored with lime juice.

When she tried for a third, he refused. “Not wise to drink too much too soon. I know from experience.”

“I liked the plain water better,” she said hopefully.

“You should. That was from the Koupind Source. It'll have you turning standing backflips in no time.”

Source Water was sold in Brackish by the mouthful for enormous prices, and even then it was usually fake or well diluted. Irona could not believe that she had just drunk a whole beaker of it, or imagine what that might cost. She leaned back in the heavenly chair and felt the healing magic seep through her like a rising tide.

“Your tutor will be here shortly,” Zard said, with his perpetual grin. “She'll take you home and let you bathe in Source Water. No, I mean it! Or at least wash your face and arms to heal the sunburn.”

After a moment, Irona held out the beaker again, and this time he refilled it.

“You were surprised to be chosen.” He had a friendly face, the sort of face that was hard to imagine looking serious. The number on his collar marked him forever as one year older than she, but he seemed younger, still more child than man.

She nodded.

“The goddess does choose women sometimes, though. We have six in the Seventy at the moment, so you make seven. And fifty-five men.”

“That wasn't what surprised me,” she whispered. “They cheated.”

The smile instantly became a look of horror. “Never say that! The goddess stopped the disk from falling. That was a miracle, so Caprice chose you.” He frowned at her silence, or perhaps her expression.

“The man ahead of me was Nis Puol Dvure. He was certain he was going to be chosen. He seemed to be very rich.” The priests had been bribed.

Zard's eyes widened even more, pale in the shadow. “They don't come any richer! The Dvures own half the Source of Chiala and about a third of everything else. Perhaps he did expect to be chosen, but goddesses don't make mistakes. Caprice wanted
you
, Irona Whatever-Your-Name-Was.”

“There was a man in the box,” she insisted. “A man who gave me that particular token. The priests asked our names as they lined us up, and somehow they passed a signal to the man in the box. He was told to give the special token to the third hand in our group. But the girl ahead of Dvure fainted and there was no time to change the instructions.”

The carvings on the sides of the box were images of fish and shells, easily deep enough to conceal airholes or spyholes, or both.