Irona 700 (7 page)

She was surprised to see smiles of approval everywhere. There were no other nominations. Approved by acclamation, she bowed to the applause and returned to her chair, still shaking. She did not expect Caprice to send her a protégée, but the cash reward for just standing by all day was considerable. And once the goddess made her choice, Irona's own tutelage would end and she would be free of her dependence on Trodelat.

The climax of the session, and the most important position to be decided that evening, was the seat on the Treaty Commission. Most of the other cities and islands in the Empire were officially independent states, bound by treaties of alliance. In practice they had to do as Mother Benign told them, submitting their annual monetary and manpower levies, and the Treaty Commission oversaw their compliance. It wielded enormous power. Of course, no Chosen ever accepted bribes, but friendly gifts were always available, and senior officials like the Treaty Commissioners might be offered bars of gold or teams of slaves.

Five candidates were nominated, so several ballots would be needed. The first one eliminated Trodelat. Irona was not at all surprised when Ledacos won by an overall majority in the second. He was the big winner of the evening; he had made his move. He was one to watch.

He was also, in another sense, easy on the eyes—skinny or not.

The following evening two of the three candidates Ledacos nominated won election. The evening after that, he nominated Irona 700 to be his successor on the Navy Board. As she rose to go forward, she heard some angry muttering. She was supposed to hear it: A woman? A child? Even if her sponsor had gathered enough votes to elect her, the First could call for reconsideration, which would surely overturn her election. Having been elected for life, the First need never worry about making enemies.

But Ledacos had not finished. “Irona 700,” he informed the assembly, “comes from a seafaring family and is very familiar with ships. She has already sailed as far south as Lenoch and as far north as Brandur.”

In its sheer brevity, that announcement greatly overstated her experience and knowledge. She had served as a narwhal skinner, not a sailor. But it was enough. Two other men had already risen to nominate. Both promptly sat down. At last everyone understood why the goddess had chosen Irona, and she was elected by acclamation.

Now she certainly had a patron, and Ledacos had put his client on the Navy Board as his own replacement. He was indisputably the new man to watch in Benesh politics. And Irona 700 had her feet on the rungs of the ladder.

On Midsummer Day, Irona was collected before dawn by a troop of soldiers and rushed off in a litter to the choosing. Already the streets were crammed with people, but her guards charged through like a pod of orcas and took her safely to the temple of Caprice.

The blind goddess's priests did not kneel to her. After two years, she had come to expect everyone to kneel to her. But they did escort her to Ledacos, who was eating an interesting-looking breakfast in a small room to the right of the goddess's elbow. Its windows provided a clear view of the platform and the coffer below, and of the first pilgrims filing up the long ramp as the first rays of the sun lit the temple spires.

He rose and pulled up a chair for her. The move unsettled her, for that was a courtesy that juniors extended to elders. The Chosen were very fussy about seniority.

“Source Water?” He poured her a beaker. “Koupind, I think. It has that peppery touch on the tongue.” He was impressive, radiating confidence and interest, the man on the way up. His tunic was a decorous knee length and the regulation sea green in color, ornamented with a small sunburst in seed pearls over his heart; personal adornment was limited to one heavy silver bracelet and a ruby ring. In Irona's opinion, those merely emphasized the hairiness of his wrists and fingers.

She had a little speech prepared. Before she could recite it, Ledacos beat her to it.

“I was impressed by your performance on the Juvenile Court that day, 700. You seem to share my philosophy of government.”

Irona had never given a thought to philosophy of government. “Um … What do you mean, exactly?”

He smiled. “Well, please don't tattle this to any of the senior antiques among the Seventy, but I'm a cynic! I think most rulers try to do too much. Too much good, I mean. Do great good and you will inevitably do great evil also. I think our guiding light should be to do as little evil as possible. The secret is to choose the course of action that does the least amount of harm.”

She nodded uncertainly. Taxing people who couldn't keep bread on the table, wasn't that evil? Conscripting boys to be marines and get killed, wasn't that evil? How about burning half an allied city because it was late with its tribute? She would have to think about this, perhaps ask her teachers for some lectures on philosophy of government. Her education had not ended yet.

“Of course,” he continued, “sometimes that principle would lead us to do nothing, but sometimes nothing is the thing to do, don't you agree?”

Was he just playing with her? Leading her out of her depth to watch her flounder? She countered with her prepared speech.

“I congratulate you on your recent successes, '92. You have marked yourself as the man to watch among the Seventy. I am honored to regard myself as one of your clients.”

“Thank you. I have also made enemies.” Then came one of his rare smiles. “But also some friends, I hope?”

Again she was thrown off balance. Fortunately, she did not have to comment, because in walked lanky, red-haired Komev 701, clutching a jade collar. He flashed a smile at Irona and attempted to kneel to Ledacos.

“Up! You don't need to kneel to me, '01!”

The boy flushed. “Sir, my tutor has taught me to—”

“Your tutor, if you will forgive my saying so, is a stuffed walrus. Mine taught me that Chosen never kneel to other Chosen. Now help yourself to as much as you can carry.” He waved at the loaded table. “And don't call me ‘sir.'”

Komev hesitated. “Is it possible to change tutors, '92?”

Ledacos regarded him in silence while nibbling a fig. “I suppose it might be permitted, but you would make lifelong enemies of your present tutor and all his clients. As would whoever took you on.”

“Oh.”

“Tough it out for another year,” Ledacos said with more sympathy. “684's not a bad man, just a little too rigid on protocol, and you'll do better getting too much of that than too little. He's had a lot of administrative experience, so listen to what he tells you. Next year at this time, if you want me as your patron, I will be honored to accept you as a client. I've been keeping my eye on you, and so far you look most promising.”

Komev's flush turned as red as his hair. He began loading food into a silver bowl with both hands. His idea of what he would need was astounding.

“They're starting,” Irona said from the window as the first brass disk went slithering away down the chute. “Does the goddess ever choose one of the early birds?”

“She is reputed to have chosen the very first in line a century or so ago,” Ledacos said.

Whether that was true or not, Komev believed him. Grabbing up his bowl and the 702 collar, he tore out of the room to wait downstairs for the next Chosen.

“Come and eat,” Ledacos said. “Our young friend overlooked a few scraps. We may be here for hours. You kept us waiting long enough.”

“Me?” She returned to the table.

“Two years ago. I was here with Trodelat all day.”

He did not quite roll his eyes, but she pretended that he had.

“My tutor, or former tutor, is not a stuffed walrus! I am quite certain of that, because I have helped skin walruses.”

He laughed. “Goddess preserve us, what a horrible thought! No, but she does pall after a few hours. By the way, I have never seen anyone look more surprised than you did when you were Chosen.”

“Likely not,” she said carefully.

He studied her for a moment, that clever-clever mind analyzing. “You thought that the Dvure boy was supposed to be the one and the girl fainting spoiled the plot. But what plot, Irona? How could they rig the choosing?”

“I have no idea.” To put her suspicions into words would accuse her own father of using a fix.

Ledacos shrugged. “One day I hope you will trust me enough to tell me.”

“One day I may understand why the goddess wanted an ignorant girl for her Seventy.”

“To sit on her Navy Board. I was elected to Navy two years ago because my father was a sailor who earned distinction in the Battle of Byakal-Krida. But he had been a rower in a galley, and when I knew him, he was a mere carpenter. Still is, by the way. Have you been home yet?”

“No.”

“Send someone to make inquiries first. Otherwise you may be shocked by the changes. Or more shocked by what hasn't changed. And don't make the mistake some Chosen make, of snatching their families up from poverty and installing them in mansions. Better just to send them regular money so they can live where they've always lived and lord it over their neighbors.”

Irona thought her family would much rather not remind any of their neighbors that they had a daughter among the Seventy. The Seventy collected taxes.

“Talking of mansions,” Ledacos remarked, “you need a home of your own now.”

“I know I do.” As long as she lived with Trodelat, Trodelat would try to manage her. Now her new patron was starting to do so.

“And a staff to run it. Even the most junior member of the Navy Board is expected to do some entertaining.”

Horror upon horror! Already she worried about the workload she had taken on and all the preparatory learning it would need. She was appalled to think of the labor involved in choosing a home, hiring servants, training them. She would need a majordomo to run the place, and the thought of someone like Captain Jamarko in her bed made her feel physically sick. She rose from the table and went over to the windows to stare down unseeing at the boys and girls filing by, and the new-fledged citizens running to the exit stairs.

Ledacos had followed her, for his voice came from close behind.

“Podnelbi 681 is dying. Source Water does nothing for him now. His tide will ebb before tomorrow's dawn.”

“That's very sad,” she muttered, not looking around. What was her patron hinting at?

“His home and all its contents revert to the Property Commission. The Sebrat House—do you know it? The commission currently has six or seven abodes it can offer you at purely nominal fees, but Podnelbi's place is quite modest. Some of us live like emperors, as you know, in mansions of a hundred halls. Other go the opposite extreme and are too frugal to uphold the dignity of their office. But Sebrat would suit you very well.”

She knew the house, and it was certainly humble compared to most.

“I would feel like a ghoul, storming in there to loot before his corpse was cold.”

“He has two children.” Ledacos always seemed to know everything. It was a very annoying habit. “His daughter is already safely married off. His son is a trainee lawyer, I believe, and betrothed to marry the daughter of a very rich silk merchant, but of course both of those arrangements will go by the board now. Their mother is a freedwoman, Velny Lavice. The moment 681 stops breathing, she will be given two days to get out, and there will be guards on the door to make sure nothing is removed except the smock on her back. The same goes for his entire staff, about ten of them, I think. A very modest establishment.”

Trodelat had twenty.

“What are you suggesting, patron?”

“Please never call me that, 700. They will all be out in the street. I am suggesting that tomorrow morning you inform the Property Commission that you are interested in taking over Sebrat House as is. Or I can tell them for you, if you wish. I have some influence there.” He must have clients everywhere. “Then, as soon as it is practicable, you interview Velny. She would make an excellent housekeeper for you.”

The drums and trumpets continued, the disks slid away down the chute, but Irona was not seeing the choosing ceremony now. A ready-made establishment was a dazzling prospect, almost too good to be true. But she had already learned to analyze every word the clever Ledacos 692 uttered.

“How old is the son?”

“About your age, maybe.” Ledacos shrugged, implying a lack of interest in young men.

Irona swallowed. There were more hints and clues floating around this conversation than gulls around a fishing port. She had met Podnelbi's son at social functions. He was a year or two older than she was and fabulously handsome. “Are you suggesting that I take over the son as well?”

After a pause, Ledacos said softly, “Gods forbid that I should even dream of it.”

Her heart jumped. She was not sure when sex had appeared on the agenda, but probably when he came to stand so close that she could almost feel his breath on the back of her head. It was certainly there now.

She spun around. “I was not aware that romance was part of our arrangement.”

The inquiring smile vanished. His face hardened. “Nor was I.”

“Good,” she said. “Almost the first thing my tutor told me was that sex and politics do not mix.”

“Mine told me the same thing, ten years ago.”

Nice try, though.

She nodded, hoping he would not grab her and kiss her, because she did not trust herself to resist. She would certainly not scream for rescue. Once she had been fascinated by Sklom Uroveg's harpooner muscles, not understanding that Sklom was stupider than the seals he slew. Ledacos's arms were adequate, if a little on the hairy side. As were his legs.

Feeling her face flush scarlet, she turned back to the window.

“I would be very grateful if you would drop a word to the Property Commission about Sebrat House, Ledacos.”

The crowd roared, trumpets and drums …

“Already?” He joined her at the window. A boy—a barefoot child in a dirty rag—was standing on the bridge, petrified with horror. Komev 701 was striding out to greet him, seeming to grow taller with every step.