Irona 700 (11 page)

Drenched and half frozen, she halted to stare, horrified at how pathetic it seemed to her now, just one story and an attic, fronting right on the street, probably no more than four rooms in all. It was larger and better maintained than its neighbors, but that was all one could say of it. Suddenly she dithered close to panic at what she was about to do.

If she exposed a state secret, she would disgrace herself and ruin her career forevermore. Just as bad, she might find that her assumptions were all wrong and she had misled the Navy Board. She would be laughed to destruction. Nothing she ever said again would be believed.

“This's what we're looking for? Your orders?”

Even Vly's rumbling growl failed to steady her. She muttered a prayer.

“Irona!” Vlyplatin grabbed her shoulders and put his wet face close to hers, hood to hood. Never had he spoken her name before, and his grip was fierce. “Whatever it is you are planning to do, the goddess chose you to do it. Now give me my orders before we both freeze to death.”

She pulled loose and forced a chuckle. “Thanks, but don't ravish me here. We have come to see Beigas Broskev. Knock softly, but put your boot in the door.”

“We come in war, not peace?”

“In authority, not friendship.”

“Good. Stand a little back of me so they don't notice you so much.” He strode along to the door and thumped on it with his fist.

He was about to knock again when it opened a crack and a girl peered out. Vlyplatin seemed very large in his sealskin cloak and he
sounded
like an angry dragon.

“Open in the name of the Republic!”

The girl—one of very few household slaves in Brackish—fled, shrieking in terror. Vlyplatin thrust the door wide and entered, letting Irona follow. Then they were standing in the main room of the house, which was very luxurious by Brackish's standards, with a small woolen rug in the center, cushions on the chairs, and some ugly daubs of art on the walls. There was no fire in the grate just then, but no ashes, either.

As Irona bolted the outer door, the inner doorway was abruptly filled by the bulk of Beigas Broskev. She was a large, permanently menacing woman with hair dyed and face painted. Behind her hovered a male slave clutching a meat cleaver, although no slave would ever dare threaten a citizen. Irona had never liked Beigas and wished she could have dealt with someone more agreeable. She hated the thought of having to give the woman money. On the other hand, there could be no doubt of who held the upper hand now.

Vlyplatin, summing up his hostess in a glance, took two steps forward, so that he stood on the Broskev's precious rug. Then he stamped a few times and wiped his boots on it. The Street Cleaning Committee's mandate did not stretch to Brackish, where winter rains made the cesspits overflow, turning the streets into open sewers. Beigas glared down in horror as mud and feces reduced her treasure to garbage. This was a side of Vly that Irona had never seen before; as always, he had changed color to match her needs.

“Who are you?” Beigas roared. “How dare you force your way into my house?” She had a voice as domineering as Vlyplatin's own, possibly louder. Her face was inflamed like a setting sun.

“Give me the bag,” Irona said. Vly fumbled under his cloak and passed it across, carefully not letting it jingle. “And see we are not interrupted.”

He nodded, jostled roughly past their hostess, and went out. The slave backed away before him and the door closed, leaving the two women alone. It was better for his own safety that Vlyplatin not overhear the discussion to come.

“You know me.” Irona pushed back her hood.

“Irona Matrinko! I might have …”

Then Beigas remembered what had happened to Irona Matrinko, and the red fury in her face ebbed away into an appalled pallor blotched with paint. Irona opened her cloak enough to expose the jade collar and watched without pity as Beigas Broskev subsided, sinking to her knees before the might of the goddess's Chosen.

It was a joyful moment. Beigas had always been the tyrant termagant of Brackish, scolding the children and snitching on them to their parents, denouncing adolescents as rapists or harlots, making trouble for adults in general and the sailors in particular, because through her mousy harbormaster husband she controlled the best anchorages and moorings. By Brackish standards she was wealthy, but every copper fish of it had been extracted by bribes, threats, and blackmail, and although she was easily the worst-hated woman in the village, no one ever dared speak against her lest he risk her spite. It was entirely in character that Beigas was also a spy for the Geographical Section.

“What are you staring at, woman?”

Beigas was staring at her, but hastily lowered her eyes to regard the wreckage of her rug.

“I beg pardon, ma'am.”

Nice! Caprice was kind to those who served her. “I come here for some information,” Irona announced. “Swear by the goddess that you will not mention my name to anyone, or reveal that the Seventy have spoken to you; nor will you discuss with anyone else what I am about to tell you, except as I may give you permission later.”

“Oh, I do so swear, ma'am!”

Anyone who trusted Beigas Broskev was dumber than a winkle. “And fear the wrath of the Seventy also.”

“I am a loyal servant of the Republic, ma'am.”

“Oh, I know that! And an upstanding citizen of Brackish, too—ask anyone. Ask Nos Pilulka, who babbled sedition in his cups one night, or Ledvin Vapmo, who was smuggling fixes and cheated you out of your cut, or …” Irona listed several more Brackish men who had been turned in to the Geographical Section by Beigas and had thereafter been seen no more.

The woman's face set in a rictus of terror.

“If you betray me,” Irona said, “I will see that the news gets out in Brackish. Then I doubt that you will get out of Brackish, at least not alive. Now, can I trust you?”

Beigas groveled. “I swear!” This time she was more convincing.

“Good. So listen. The Republic needs to send some people to Vyada Kun. The matter is urgent and must be done in total secrecy. The navy's galleys are all laid up for the winter. Could you name … On second thought,” Irona added, although this had always been her intention, “could you act as our agent in this and hire a boat for us? Probably several boats.”

Now they were into bargaining, the older woman's face instantly registered greed instead of fear. “In this weather? The risk would be extreme.”

“You forget I am a hunter's daughter.”

“Alas, your poor father! It was just off Vyada Kun that his vessel foundered, you know. So many fine men …”

Irona had not known that. She had picked the name only because of Vyada Kun's proximity to Captain Shark's lair.

“But the hunters sail still. A boat that will carry at least a dozen men, better a score. How much to ship them there, as soon as possible?” Irona did not mention that she needed return tickets for the passengers, and captured pirate vessels might solve that problem.

Beigas registered dismay. “A boat so big? A reliable captain and crew who happen to be in port now?”

“How much?”

“Ten dolphins, maybe more, if you want the best.” That probably included at least five for Beigas Broskev.

“I want the best, the very best. But the word must not get out, so only Brackish boats, Brackish men, you understand? No stealing from Sourport or Overock or any of the other harbors on the island. How many boats could you round up in Brackish, say, a week from now?”

Dreams of wealth roiled in Beigas's slimy brain. Her eyes shone. “Well, I would have to put them on retainer to keep them in port, ma'am. But if cost is no object, I could have ten or twelve by then. You'll want them provisioned. That would cost more, of course, because rations go off, and feeding so many passengers … Have to lay in fresh cables and sails for a long winter voyage like that, but Brackish men are the finest sailors and the bravest—”

“I know that,” Irona said with a momentary vision of Sklom Uroveg's legendary arms. “So you think you could provide transport for two hundred people?”

“Even three hundred, at a pinch.”

They would be sleeping in the stinking holds in heaps, and Irona recalled Knipry 640's scorn of the army brass. She was fairly certain that Beigas would offer leaky rowboats for that third hundred.

“Two hundred should suffice. Let me put it another way. How much per person?”

Beigas licked her lips. “A dolphin a head?”

Irona turned away to clink her bag of gold down on the table, but also to hide her excitement. It should be possible! Benign itself had by far the largest fleet on the island, but mostly trading ships, few of which would risk a winter voyage. There were five or six little fishing ports like Brackish around the inside of the bay and at least as many on the outside coast. Sea hunters and fishermen went out in all weathers, even knowing the risks. Supposing Beigas's boast that she could move two hundred men to the north meant only one hundred, then transporting an army of two thousand or so ought to be possible. Even allowing for a few hundred drowned on the way there, the Republic should still crush Captain Shark's gang quite easily.

Irona pulled open the purse and took out a fistful of gold, which she let Beigas see. “One hundred dolphins as an advance on transporting two hundred passengers. Of course, we shall require a detailed accounting later, but even if we decide not to go ahead, or the weather blocks us, then we shall allow you reasonable expenses.”

Irona tossed a single whale down on the rug. She expected argument, but Beigas's meaty hand made the coin vanish before it had time to glitter.

“It is a great honor to serve the Republic, my lady!”

There was little to settle after that, except to agree how much Beigas could reveal to others. She demanded a code word to identify genuine messengers, a detail Irona would not have thought of.

“Sklom,” she said. “You will hear from us within three days, then. Tell my guard I am ready to go.”

She gave Vlyplatin the bag to carry again, and he must have noticed that it seemed no lighter. They muffled up and went out to brave the storm; although the rain had tapered off, the wind was blowing as hard as ever. Bent into its blast, Irona waited for him to ask how her negotiations had gone, but he didn't. How many aides would be so discreet? How few lovers would?

“It went well,” she said.

“Glad. Celebrate tonight?”

“I have a late meeting.”

“Afternoon, then?”

How could they keep the servants from finding out?

Why did that matter?

“I'll think about it,” she said.

“So will I. All the way home. It won't bother you if I mumble to myself about the curve of your breasts or the sweet taste of your nipples?”

“Not at all. I may make a few complimentary remarks about chest hair.”

In fact they did not go straight home, because she went around by the harbor to admire the extended breakwater. Beigas had not thanked her for it, so perhaps nobody had made the connection. It didn't matter now.

Then they went home and celebrated.

That night, in her office, Irona confessed to Chosen Fialovi that she had already bent the secrecy rules by visiting Brackish. He admitted that he had cornered a couple of traders at the Naval Ball to ask if a delegation could be carried on an urgent mission to a northern destination. The answer had been a canny yes, as long as cost was no problem.

“So it's possible!” Irona showed him numbers she had worked out. “We can embark fifteen hundred men and have them in Udice in seven or eight days. Maybe sooner, maybe later.”

“How much later?”

“Weeks. It all depends on the wind.” Which depended on the goddess.

“We shouldn't need more than a thousand men.”

“I said ‘embark' not ‘deliver.' There will be shrinkage.”

He winced. “Sometimes I forget you're a woman.”

There were so many possible retorts to that gibe that she ignored it.

“It all depends on Mother Caprice. If she stays her hand, we'll have a resounding triumph. If she turns against us, we may lose every man. … And woman.”

Fialovi looked startled. “You expect to go with them?”

“It was my idea. I shall insist on going.”

But no one insisted on anything to the Seven.

Old Knipry 640 was a master obstructionist, able to delay for years any proposal he disliked. When he saw a need for speed, though, he went straight to the heart of the matter like a war galley ramming a coracle. Two nights later, Irona found herself waiting in the anteroom of the Seven's chamber. Three elderly citizens she did not know were sitting there also, under the watchful eyes, and no doubt sensitive ears, of a couple of Palace guards. The citizens had knelt when she entered and she had bade them rise and resume their seats, but that was the limit of the discourse. She had no idea who they were; they could read her number on her collar.

The hour was very late, and she had been busy since before dawn. No doubt the Seven endured days like this all the time. Who would ever want to be a Seven? Not she. She would do her job as a Chosen and leave it at that. The shark-eat-shark world of higher politics was no place for her.

But she did want to show them that she could do as well as Nis Puol Dvure would have done.

She had collected all the information she needed for Operation Sklom. Knipry had taken her plan to the Seven. If they wanted to question her, they would. If they rejected it, she would be sent home—to Vly. She passed the time by thinking fondly of him, and the change he had already made in her life. As Trodelat had told her on the day she was chosen, a strong young man in attendance was a great bolster to one's self-esteem.

Her strong young man was waiting downstairs with the other servants and attendants. Irona was quite confident that he would change his octopus color to fit right in with them, and certainly never brag about how he slept with a Chosen every night. He might wait hours more, and yet he would never question or comment. How could she have been so cruel as to keep him waiting so long for acceptance as a lover? What a jewel he was! And she, who never wore jewels! She chuckled at the comparison.