Irona 700 (22 page)

Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the roar that always greeted Caprice's decision. Together they peered through the slatted window. Last year's Chosen, Haruna 710, was walking out to greet the newcomer—another girl.

“Two in a row?” Komev said. “Either the goddess has gone crazy, or she's showing she approves of your performance.”

“I hope this new one likes children,” Irona retorted, thinking that she really did not need more household complications.

A few minutes later, she went down to greet her protégée, Puchuldiza 711, who was plump, plain, and quite short. She was also starry eyed, showing none of the terror and resentment that Irona had endured at her own choosing.

“Congratulations. I'm Irona 700, and I've been appointed your—”

“Yes, yes, I know! Haruna just told me.” Puchuldiza bubbled like a Source Water spring. “And you're going to have a parade! That's how I get to ride in the imperial barge with you! I dreamed it, you see. I've been dreaming for weeks of the goddess choosing me, and lately I've been dreaming of riding in the state coach with you and the First and I told my sisters but they wouldn't believe me.”

“Then you're not surprised?” Irona tried not to look at Haruna, who was pulling outrageous faces in the background.

“Oh, not surprised at all,” Puchuldiza said. “I often dream things before they happen. But do I
have
to wear that terrible green? It absolutely is not my color.”

The tension in the Scandal Market the next day seemed greater than Irona ever remembered. Possibly she had forgotten how it could be, or perhaps she was just imagining it. For days Chosen had been wishing her luck in the coming elections. Most had been too polite to mention any specific election they had in mind, and to those who did she had merely said she would be nominating Ledacos 692 for the Seven. She suspected that some of them had been sent to check on her and would report her answer back to him.

The First was above politics and never meddled in them, and yet she had a strong suspicion that Knipry had been warning her that he was going to arrange for her to be drafted. And that would be embarrassing for both of them. She really,
really
could not expect to be elected to the Seven at her age. Ledacos's ambitions were well known, and it would be a brutal blow to him to be passed yet again, and in favor of a woman eight years younger. The smart money—and half the citizenry of Benign gambled on elections to the Seven—would be on Gamchen 642, who had served a dozen times before and was well respected. He was elderly, true, but Chosen did not decay. The seat was almost certainly his if he wanted it, not least because he was known to be a close friend of the First, so voting against him might have unfortunate results later.

Obnosa 658 was there, back in sea green because her term had ended at dawn. She made no effort to speak with Irona. Unlike other magistrates, retiring Sevens never nominated candidates to be their replacements.

Irona had her protégée with her, and Puchuldiza's endless chatter was a good pest repellant. A gap opened around them.

“When do I get to wear jewels?” Puchuldiza demanded, scanning the glittering throng.

“Any time you like,” Irona said. “I'll show you where the Property Commission's office is. They'll lay out trays of gold and silver and gems for you. Pick out whatever you want.”

“Why don't you wear jewelry?”

“I think my collar is ornament enough. Money can't buy one like it.”

“Oh, that's sweet!”

Sweet or not, it was a safe bet that by tomorrow Puchuldiza would outglitter the midnight sky.

The gong sounded, and the Chosen headed for the Assembly Hall.

The election of a Seven was always placed at the end of the agenda, because it was traditionally followed by a party. Kapalny 664 called the meeting to order, and they all settled down to a long grind of routine business. The first two counts confirmed that there were sixty-two Chosen voting. Kapalny had just announced the second decision when Knipry rose from his throne. Kapalny sat down.

“I ask the Assembly to proceed to Item Ten.” The First chuckled with the joy of an expert making an unexpected move in some intricate board game.

“The-Assembly-thanks-His-Reverence-for-this-guidance-Item-Ten-election-of-a-Seven-the-chair-calls-for-nominations-Chosen-642?”

The recognition came even before old Gamchen rose from his seat. Irona's scalp prickled. If Gamchen was going to nominate, then he was not himself a candidate. Then she realized that he had spoken her name.

So it had happened! Knipry had followed through and was indicating his own preference by asking his old crony to nominate her. That would swing a lot of the old guard. Her own nomination of Ledacos had been preempted.

As Irona rose, her heart began beating very fast. A first election to the Seven meant far more than just one two-year term. In practice, the Republic and its Empire were run by the First and a dozen or so senior Chosen. With elections scattered around the calendar and a compulsory one-year leave between terms, there were always former Sevens waiting in the wings, eager to return. These were jocularly known as the Six, although their number varied. First election to the Seven meant admittance to the inner circle. It was almost never granted before a Chosen reached forty, and very rarely withdrawn later. Four-fifths of the Chosen were never admitted at all.

She walked forward and turned to face the gathering. Instinctively, she met Ledacos's eye. He was sneering at her betrayal, but his expression quickly became one of dismay as Suretamatai 683 jumped up to nominate him. That was unwanted support from an ally, who did not see, as Ledacos himself clearly must, that Irona was almost certain to win in the prevailing mood. Having no choice, Ledacos stalked forward and took his place on Irona's left, ignoring her.

After a brief pause, the chair asked if there were any more nominations, and up shot Azalka 660. She nominated Pavouk 708, who was only a year out of tutelage. He strode forward, grinning from ear to ear. Obviously he had been forewarned and knew that he was not a serious candidate, but he was popular and his juvenile amusement was reflected back in more smiles. Ledacos bit his lip, knowing now that he had run into a well-organized conspiracy.

The number of candidates could be critical. A third candidate, often a mere stalking horse, could deny either of the main factions a first ballot win and allow them to assess each other's strength—and also see who was in what camp, which was even more important. Most patrons did not bind their clients to more than the first ballot, so many votes would be freed to switch.

There being no further nominations, the honorable Chosen wishing to vote for Pavouk 708 must raise their right hands. …

The First never voted except to break a tie, but the Sevens did, so Irona could not be sure of the total without blatantly turning around to look at them, which was bad form. She saw eleven hands, and the chair decreed twelve—candidates were deemed to vote for themselves. So no Seven had supported the brash kid. His was a good showing for a stalking horse, though, and now there would almost certainly be a second ballot.

For Ledacos 692? Eighteen hands that she could see, plus Ledacos himself, and evidently three Sevens, because Kapalny announced a total of twenty-two. That left twenty-eight for Irona, which was what she got.

Pavouk was excused. He bowed to the First and returned to his seat, being awarded a round of applause that made his grin stretch superhumanly wide. If all his votes went to Ledacos, Ledacos­ would win.

But they didn't. On the second ballot, Irona scored forty-seven and Ledacos only fifteen. It was a staggering defeat. His bow to the First was barely perceptible, and the round of applause he received as a consolation prize was thin.

So Irona 700 stepped up to take her place among the Seven and received a standing ovation. All for torturing six smugglers? But Ledacos had been thoroughly snubbed, thanks to the well-meaning efforts of one of his own supporters, and she had been given her revenge without having to lift a finger for it. After all that knife sharpening, too! Never had the goddess so clearly shown her favor.

The rest of the agenda was run through roughshod, so the Chosen could adjourn to the upper reaches of the Palace. First Knipry never stinted on parties. Young Pavouk received much mock commiseration and good wishes for his next try. Of course he promised to run again next time. He could not realistically expect to be elected for another twenty years, unless Irona's breakthrough had permanently changed the rules.

Ledacos was conspicuously absent. How long would he have to wait before he tried a fourth time?

The reception was held in the Treaty Hall, and after all the congratulations had been passed and several flagons of wine consumed, they made Irona stand at the end of the line of portraits so they could agree how much she would improve the quality of the display. Obnosa protested loudly, of course. An argument then developed over the best portrait painter in the city. Irona had no opinion. Four or five names were tossed around, until the First stated his views quite strongly and that settled that. The name he suggested was Veer Machin.

When Irona arrived home that night, Ledacos was waiting for her. Velny Lavice was keeping him company but was very happy to make her excuses and leave him to her employer. Irona told Daun to remain.

“Send your ape away!” Ledacos was more than a little drunk. “What I have to say to you, bitch, is private.”

“Daun is my confidential aide and I keep no secrets from him. What is your problem?”

“You betrayed me! You agreed to help me get elected. You promised to nominate me.” Much more than a little drunk.

Irona sat down on the most comfortable chair without inviting her visitor to try another.

“I did agree to nominate you. I would have done so had I not been nominated before I could speak. A nominated candidate cannot nominate an opponent, as you well know. I did not campaign on your behalf because you never asked me to. I wouldn't have done so, anyway.”

“Two-faced, conniving, scheming slut!”

Daun came closer. Irona waved him back.

“You have the finest political instincts in the Seventy, Ledacos 692, but this time you let ambition overrule it. Three tries in two years is unheard of. It stinks of greed.”

“And going back on your sworn words doesn't?”

“I gave you my word, yes. I told anyone who asked me that I had agreed to nominate you. I did not seek the nomination; I did not campaign for the office. You, on the other hand, were campaigning ferociously. Don't tell me you didn't pick up on the fact that I was being touted as a national hero. You didn't let that worry you because I had promised to put your name forward. You thought you had blocked me. But some people more powerful than you didn't like it, and they blocked you.”

“Bitch!”

That was enough. Ledacos was making a complete fool of himself, and the longer she let him go on, the worse he would feel about it in the morning, if he remembered this scene in the morning.

“You have outstayed your welcome. Daun, show His Honor out, and send a porter with a lantern to make sure he manages to find his way safely home.”

“Your Honor?” Daun moved close again.

Ledacos turned his rage on him. “I'm a Chosen, you ape. Lay one finger on me and you'll die the sea death!”

“And I am a Seven,” Irona said, her own temper flaring. “Leave my home this instant, or I'll see you posted to Maasok for the next five years!”

Ledacos threw down his beaker and stormed out of the room, with Daun at his heels like a terrier.

Her promotion buried Irona under a rockslide of work—reports to read, committees to chair, staff to hire, social invitations by the score, and umpteen meaningless civic or ceremonial duties. About a score of Chosen wanted her as a patron and her protégée desperately needed guidance, not least because Puchuldiza herself did not see the need.

Irona had not even yet organized her home life, for she needed more staff to look after Podakan, who barely ever saw his mother now. She fell into bed exhausted and could barely drag herself out again at dawn. One morning she arrived at her office in the Palace and was less than pleased to learn that her first task was to interview half a dozen people for secretarial help. It had to be done, for Sazen and Daun were grossly overworked. Her patience began to show cracks when Sazen coughed his you-won't-like-this-but-think-before-you-explode signal.

“I ventured to inform Citizen Machin that you might spare him some time also, ma'am.”

“Citizen who?”

“Veer Machin, the artist hired by the Seven to—”

“Don't be ridiculous! Tell him to come back next year.”

Sazen did not move, which was a bad sign. “The Seven's resolution set a deadline on completion, ma'am.” And quickly: “He says he needs to spend an hour or two just watching you, studying your face and gestures, and so on.”

“Oh, very well. As long as he doesn't smell too bad, bring him in.”

The man who lumbered in seemed clean and inoffensive, unlike most artisans. He was young and large, a sort of amiable bear of a man, with a thick tangle of fairish hair, a passable brown smock, and fingers all the colors of the rainbow. His movements were clumsy; dropping to his knees, he almost overbalanced.

“Do rise, citizen. Veer Machin, I understand.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

He took up a lot of space standing there, with his face lowered, nervously rubbing his hands together. Not fat like a rich man, not muscular like a rower, just big.

“And what is it you require of me?”

“To watch you, ma'am. Study the way your face moves. The play of light on your skin. How the color of your eyes changes.”

“I am not aware that my eyes change color!”

“No, ma'am. But they do. Everyone's do.”

Interesting! “Don't you need to draw me?”