Irona 700 (4 page)

Trodelat watched with amusement, taking little for herself. After dismissing the servants, she chuckled. “I am sorry, my dear! I was very thoughtless not to guess that you must be starving. Eat until you burst. I won't even talk. We'll have some music instead.”

She turned to a set of chimes beside her and jingled three notes. That was a signal, for in a moment a group of slaves appeared with musical instruments and began to play. Irona did not recognize the music, or even like it much, but she was fully occupied with the food, and that she enjoyed very much. She had never tasted things so varied and delicious. She began to understand what Zard and Trodelat had meant about rewards, but she kept thinking that her mother would be mourning a lost child. And missing her principal helper.

The Midsummer moon hung huge over the bay by the time Irona had finished, when two male slaves carried away the tables and the musicians departed.

“That was wonderful, ma'am! I do believe that it was the best meal I ever ate.”

“I could believe it was the biggest. And you don't call me ‘ma'am.' Normally you do offer that respect to Chosen at least ten years older than yourself. And others who are not Chosen will call you ‘ma'am.' However, because I'm your tutor, you will call me Trodelat, or 680. Just ‘Eighty' would be too informal. Members of the Seven you may address as ‘Your Honor' and of course the First is ‘Your Reverence.'”

Irona nodded. But then her eyes wandered to the view, and it seemed that all the world was spread out before her. The island was shaped like the rim of a jar being used to ladle up water. Its eastern rim was submerged, although a few rocks and arid islets supported beacons to mark the best channels.

“Oh! I had no idea it was so big, ma'am-I-mean-Trodelat.”

“Big? Big? Benign is tiny, child! Wait until you start your lessons and they show you maps. This is one of the tiniest islands, and yet it rules all the others, and much of the mainland as well, from the borders of the Three Kingdoms in the south to the Dread Lands of the far north. Not that you will have to worry about them until you have gained much seniority in the Seventy.”

Why? How? Those questions would have to wait. Irona had never wondered about such things before, but perhaps in the future she would have to. Now her eyelids weighed more than two dead whales. She must not yawn. Yawning, she was sure, would be bad manners in Benign, because it was frowned upon even in Brackish.

“I should let you retire,” her hostess said. “You have had a killing day.” Her manner had softened since they met in the temple. Did she feel more in command now, here in her own palace, with dozens of slaves to wait on her? Or had she decided that her pupil was not going to cause her any trouble? “But let me explain two more things, if you can stay awake a little longer. But no! First, I must ask what else you want to ask me.”

“Oh, nothing. … Well, I did wonder what happens after this tutelage thing?”

“Tutelage is a time of learning and a probation. After that, we'll find you things to do, ways to serve, and you will receive an income. A generous income! The harder and better you work for the city and the goddess, the better your reward. The Seventy pay me very handsomely to act as your tutor, and they cover your expenses. You get food and board, and I can supply any spending money you are likely to require, for clothes and lessons.

“But some decisions in the Assembly can be very close, and every vote may be valuable. Cooperation and exchange of favors are to be expected, but avoid outright bribery. You will never offer or be offered anything as vulgar as gold or silver. A Chosen rarely even thinks of personal money. But promises, favors, positions … For the next two years you will vote as I do, but we think of the long term, so there will be hints, at the very least.”

Irona nodded. “I report them to you?”

“That would be wisest. Be polite, of course. The primary rule, always, is:
Never make enemies!
You have a lifetime job now, a vitally important job, and you will need help and colleagues if you are to achieve anything. There are persons whose policies I despise utterly, and yet sometimes I find myself voting with them, even soliciting their votes for projects of my own. Everything is done by cooperation and compromise.”

Just like the hunters in Brackish dividing up the season and the hunting grounds! Irona had Trodelat figured out now. She was very much like Beigas, the wife of the Brackish harbormaster, who was spiteful and devious, a woman addicted to spinning webs of power. Probably all the Seventy were like that, sucking up the labor of the poor.

Again Irona fought to keep her eyes open. Her hostess must see that she was exhausted and battered by a day like no other, and yet she was deliberately dragging it out.

“The other thing we must discuss,” Trodelat said briskly, “is sex. You do know about sex? I'm not asking about experience, just whether you have been told how male and female bodies fit together.”

Irona had known for years how the squeaking of her parents' bed produced more brothers and sisters. “I've watched the dogs in the streets.”

Trodelat chuckled. “That is a rough approximation. The law forbids the Chosen to marry.”

Alas, Sklom Uroveg—what other girl would he clasp in his beautiful arms?

“The reasoning is obvious, I hope,” Trodelat said in her usual imperious way. “And we are forbidden to own anything at all. I am granted this house and everything in it for my personal use, but when I die, it will all revert to the Seventy. That tall boy just ahead of you today—wasn't he a Dvure? He looked like one.”

“Yes, he was.” Why had Trodelat noticed him especially, out of the thousands of youths parading through the temple?

“Well, the Dvure family would happily make you the richest woman in the city if you were to marry him, or any of his brothers or cousins. You would then help them become the richest family in the world. That is why you are not allowed to marry anyone at all. Lovers are permitted, naturally. Children are expected, because that is what ensues. But when we die, all our wealth reverts to the Republic. Our lovers and children have no claim on it. It is a hard law, but necessary. Caprice has set us to rule all her people, and we must not play favorites.”

Except themselves. They could live like emperors and empresses, while the poor went hungry.
Like lice, leeches, and lampreys,
Sklom always said.

“This is why Benign has prospered more than all other cities, whose rulers are corrupt and favor their families,” Trodelat said, still lecturing. “There is one complication that I might as well mention now. We never have romantic affairs with one another. Mixing politics and pleasure can become very complicated and very heartbreaking. One partner or the other will be labeled a whore, selling sex for advancement.”

She thought Irona was that sort of gutter slut, did she?

“I felt no mad impulse to throw myself into the arms of Zard 699.”

Her hostess smiled thinly. “I should hope not! But you will eventually wield great power in the Empire, and power lends enchantment. You will have no difficulty in finding enjoyable companions. A strong young man in attendance is a great fillip to one's self-esteem. Copulation is very healthy exercise. Let me explain my own solution to this problem.” She tinkled more notes on her chimes.

In marched Jamarko, without his weapons but still clad in a ton of bronze.

“Tell the Chosen how you came to be in my service.” Trodelat leaned back with a smile that seemed curiously feline in the moonlight.

The big man stepped closer to Irona, sank down on both knees, and spoke to her sandals, as before.

“I was born one of the Havrani, ma'am. And when Benign—”

“She doesn't know what the Havrani were,” Trodelat said.

“Beg pardon, ma'am. The Havrani were a barbarous tribe in the Muhavura Hills. We were too stupid to appreciate the benefits of civilization. Being only twelve, I was not old enough to fight in the Third Havrani Rebellion, so I escaped the fate of my father and brothers when our war band was crushed by the imperial army under the noble Byakal 633 and the survivors were put to death in the customary fashion. Instead, I was shipped to the markets with my mother and sisters. Where they went, I do not know, but I was bought by a slave trainer who brought me to this great city, cured me of my savage ways, and trained me as a house guard. I had the great good fortune to be purchased by Chosen Trodelat. After some years she freed me and appointed me her chief guardsman.”

Freeing had requiring branding his other shoulder.

“And what else?” Trodelat prompted.

“She also made me her majordomo, in charge of all her household and estates. I am extremely grateful for her trust in me.”

“And?”

After a moment's pause, Jamarko said quietly, “And she sometimes lets me sleep in her bed.”

Trodelat, Irona was horrified to see, was watching this humiliation with undisguised pleasure, eyes and lips shining.

“And very good he is, too, although so far he has failed to quicken my womb. Go now, Captain. You may dismiss the staff. Get out of all that hardware and go to bed. I will be there shortly.”

The women watched him as he marched away.

“You see what I mean?” Trodelat murmured.

On the surface, she meant that love could be bought and paid for as required. Somewhat deeper, that she was ruthless and expected her every word to be obeyed. Irona had already heard that message and did not believe the first.

“Oh yes. Thank you for being so frank.”

Yet she was remembering a friend of her father's who had tamed a sea otter pup and kept it in his home. It had been a gorgeously silky, playful pet, until the night it ate the baby.

At long last Irona was permitted to drag herself upstairs to her own private palace. It glittered with fancy treasures—and she hated it. The Seventy were trying to turn Irona Matrinko into Irona 700, twisting her out of shape just as Jamarko, that once-proud young warrior, had been twisted into a lapdog to amuse his owner.

She must escape soon, but how? The jade collar had been given her, so it was hers. Father could get it taken off her and then sell the jade for a lot of money. The Seventy would never find her, and no one in Brackish would betray her to them. She would have to wrap something around her neck to hide the collar until she found her way home, that was all. And probably find a smock that wasn't the goddess's color, although the six or seven now in her closets were all that same sea green. Not tonight, though. Irona was almost asleep on her feet as she dragged them across the soft rugs to the great bed.

Tomorrow. She would escape tomorrow. Get up early …

Tomorrow brought a nonstop parade of people on their knees, calling her “ma'am” and eager to serve her. It began with a silversmith who adjusted the collar to fit her slender neck. Then came the teachers. The city had dozens of instructors dedicated to training the youths the goddess chose to rule it, supervised by a special committee of the Seventy, the Education Board. Now they had a new pupil to meet and appraise. Could she sing? Dance? Read? Write? Speak any better than that Brackish gabble? How much history had she been taught?
None at all?
Geography? Finance? Law? Irona's head spun. They thought they could turn an ignorant Brackish baby maker into a great lady in two years? Even granted that they all insisted her education would continue long after that, even if more slowly, the job was impossible.

By evening, Irona was again too weary to think of running away, even if she would dare try to walk all that way home in the dark. And evening was when the Seventy met.

Slaves carried her up to the very crest of the Mountain, to the sprawling marble complex of the First's Palace, where all the government business was done. After a quick tour of the public areas, Irona was led into a private little garden to meet the rest of the Chosen. Almost all of them were there, about fifty in sea-green robes and the Seven in purple. The women all swarmed on her with cries of welcome that she was almost prepared to believe were genuine. There were young men there, too, whose appreciation was quieter and more subtle, but certainly flattering. And even the older men eyed her approvingly. There were many references to great Firsts of the past who had helped build the Empire: Eboga 500 and Eldborg 300. No one mentioned 100, 200, 400, or 600, though, and Irona didn't give a sprat for the Empire.

For bloodsucking monsters, they seemed remarkably well behaved. The one who impressed her most was the slightly stooped, silver-haired Knipry 640. He actually kissed her hand, with a gleam of mockery in faded old eyes under tufted eyebrows as white as breakers. His age was confirmed by his collar, an incredible seventy-six! Old enough to be her great-grandfather.

“Brackish?” he murmured. “Somebody told me you're from Brackish?”

“I can't help the way I talk.”

“Of course not, and I like it. Sailors everywhere have rough, hard speech like that, so they can be heard in the storms. Our slithery singsong would be drowned out by the winds and waves. But it seems to me that the Navy Board has an old, old petition moldering away in its in-basket. About Brackish … Something to do with a breakwater?”

Irona remembered much angry talk. “It's too short! It doesn't shelter the boats when we get nor'easters. Winds from the northeast, that is.”
South Wind
had been damaged once.

Knipry nodded. She guessed that he had known all that and been testing her. “Then we'd better do something about it! We must thank the good folk of Brackish for sending us such a beautiful Chosen to show up the rest of us old relics.”

Just minutes later, after Irona had been led indoors, welcomed by the First himself on his throne, and applauded by everyone else, that same Knipry stood up and asked for unanimous consent to amend the agenda, whatever that meant, by adding a vote to provide funds for a much-needed extension to the breakwater at Brackish.