Irona 700 (9 page)

Except that she did, of course. They met often, both socially and in the Scandal Market, but never alone. Ledacos was already powerful enough to have acquired a permanent train of clients, and young Dychat 702 stuck to him like a barnacle. Many times, by the end of a long evening, whether of work or play, he went to sleep and Ledacos carried him out in his arms.

Housekeeper Velny was reserved, respectful, and extremely good at her job. She almost never showed her feelings, yet Irona could still detect the bitterness she was hiding. The blind goddess had been kind to Irona, but most unkind to Velny. That was not Irona's fault, and she could only hope that Velny did not grudge her her better fortune.

Vlyplatin Lavice proved to be a shy young man, pleasant enough but strangely docile compared to the adolescent male hellions she remembered from Brackish. In the last two years, she had rarely even spoken to people of her own age. She could not tell whether he was just unsettled by his father's death or was naturally timid. A few days after her arrival, she thought of a way he could make himself useful while still living on crusts and roots and dressed like a hermit fresh out of the wilderness.

“My father is Akanagure Matrinko, a sea hunter and master of
South Wind
. My family live, or did live, in Brackish, four doors seaward of the chandler's store on the road to the lighthouse. I have not spoken to them since I was chosen, and I want to know how they fare. If possible, I would prefer that you do not let them know why you are inquiring, but that may be difficult, for Brackish folk are a tight-mouthed lot.” Sklom? What was he doing these days? But Sklom could wait.

“And,” she added, “I insist that you wear sandals, for it is too far to go in bare feet; you will lame yourself.” She wanted to order him to eat a good meal, too, but she was certain he would disobey.

Vlyplatin returned very late and showed great distress as he broke the news.
South Wind
had gone down with all hands in a storm during the winter before last. Irona's mother had remarried—as she would have had to do to feed her brood—and had moved, probably into Benign itself, but possibly to the mainland. Her husband's name was unknown, or at least had not been revealed to a nosy young stranger.

The young man was weeping by the time he had finished his report; he seemed to feel more hurt than she did. Two years had blunted her pain, but his bereavement was still an open sore.

She said, “Thank you. Now we have something in common.”

The Year 703

T
he Benesh navy had built and sustained its empire. Its ships carried its trade and applied its military strength. Naval vessels were galleys, mostly single decked, although the larger biremes were gradually being adopted, for sailing ships, being limited to square sails, were awkward and unreliable, incapable of doing much more than running before the wind. Galleys were manned by freemen, not slaves, and Benesh troops were marines, rowers at sea, soldiers ashore.

Empire building relied on a deceptively simple technique. Each new territory conquered, or just bullied into submission, was required to pay tribute in the form of fighting men, who swore allegiance to Benign and ultimately went home with Benesh citizenship. A large kingdom might supply and maintain a dozen galleys, fully manned, while small cities would contribute men only. Each time the Empire extended its borders, it grew richer and stronger, and so its own citizens had to share less of the risk in the next expansion.

But a navy largely manned by provincials was like a rich man's armed bodyguard, a potential threat in itself. The Seventy were well aware that any so-called ally or group of allies might rebel at any moment and then their naval contingents would surely turn coats also. The government's Geographical Section kept a watchful eye on every other navy, and its Treaty Board would rapidly move to confiscate any ships it viewed as superfluous to their owners' needs.

Being a Chosen was a great honor and very well rewarded, but it was a full-time job. Juvenile Court and Navy Board filled Irona's life. The Navy Board, especially, was so important that it ranked five Chosen, at least one of whom must be a Seven. The members sat at a crescent-shaped table facing their staff of a dozen or more clerks, shipwrights, and senior sailors, who were seated at two long, straight tables, which joined the head table to form the shape of a
U
. The room was frequently stuffy and overcrowded; its ancient frescoes of sea battles were fogged by centuries of smoky oil lamps. The Navy Board had several duties, but the most important was delivering fighting men where they were needed; the Army Board's responsibilities began as soon as they stepped ashore.

As Ledacos had told her, much of Navy's work required personal study of reports, and that could be done at her own convenience, but the meetings could never be avoided, and many problems were spun off to subcommittees, usually consisting of two Chosen and a couple of clerks. The subcommittees commonly met in private homes, often sitting well into the night.

As the most junior member, for the first half year of her two-year term, Irona rarely opened her mouth in meetings of the full board. The first time she did so she blundered badly. The senior member of the board was Seven Knipry, who had “rewarded” Brackish with a better breakwater for “donating” Irona to the goddess. He had been Ledacos's patron and now could best be described as his ally, for he promoted the younger man's cause, having few ambitions of his own and being convinced that his chance ever to be elected First had long passed. Yet he was still both sly and spry, and he kept meetings running at full gallop.

“Letter from the Treaty Commission,” Knipry announced, “requesting transportation for Commissioner Ledacos to visit Osopa and Biarni. Commodore?”

“Good tryout for
Green Gull
,” proclaimed a white-haired sailor at the head of one of the side tables.

“Can she be ready by full moon?”

“Aye, if I threaten to keelhaul her skipper.”

“And who shall we send along to witness her maiden voyage, eh? Her trials, I mean. Chosen Irona?”

Irona should have jumped at the chance of a trip on the navy's latest and largest galley, but not when Ledacos was going along. That was altogether too neat an arrangement, and she was certain that he had set it up with Knipry. The snide crack about maiden voyage was confirmation.

“Full moon would be a bad time for me, sir.”

The sudden silence seemed to clang like a bell. Then Knipry offered the perk to Rasny 650, who accepted with enthusiasm. Obviously such treats should not be refused, and a girl who wanted to be counted one of the boys should not hint at women's problems. She was offered no more goodies after that.

She was young. She would learn. But her blunder rankled, and it was small consolation that the trial of the innovative new bireme turned into a near disaster.
Green Gull
almost rolled in a minor squall and came limping home to Benign in disgrace. The designers were soundly flogged and then fired.

It was just after midwinter when Caprice smiled on Irona again. The city was cowering under a winter storm, and the board met by lamplight at the bitter end of a very wet, dark, and blustery afternoon. The air was rank with the smoke of whale oil. Everyone was anxious to leave and prepare for the annual Navy Ball at the First's Palace.

The board was discussing pirates.

Specifically, it was discussing a man who went by the name of Captain Shark. Shark had been running a flotilla of anywhere up to a dozen ships for several years, at great cost to the Empire and its commerce. The Geographical Section's spies had learned that he was holed up for the winter in Udice, a tiny port in Karang. Army had been alerted but had retorted that Karang was a desert, without water, roads, or inhabitants. Some fisherfolk lived in hamlets like Udice, but even they had no access to the interior. At this time of year, Shark might as well be on the moon.

“Tar and burn him!” Knipry roared. “By the time we can go after him, he'll be long gone out of there. We'll have to mount a major naval campaign in the spring, sweep the whole coast.”

Not wishing to display ignorance, Irona rarely asked questions, but she had grown skilled at picking up information from hints. Why, she wondered, not just turn the job over to Vyada Kun? It was a smallish city ruling a biggish island of the same name—she knew that because she had been there. It was close to Udice and it had war galleys. It was a vassal state, so why not just hire a sea hunter to deliver a letter ordering Vyada Kun to clear up the nest of pirates on its doorstep? After a few moments, she realized that the board did not trust Vyada Kun not to be in league with the enemy.

Knipry cut off discussion with a slap on the table. “Nothing we can—”

“Sir?” Irona had her hand up, for the first time ever.

Knipry stared at her as if he had forgotten her name. “Yes?”

“I ask for a recess.”

Four men exchanged angry glances. A recess was called only to discuss very secret matters, or when the members were seriously divided and needed to shout at one another. The Navy Ball … But Irona 700 had never spoken up before and obviously must be granted the courtesy of a hearing for that reason alone.

“Recess.” The chairman pushed back his chair. The Chosen retired to their withdrawing room just behind their table. It held a circle of five chairs, nothing more. Some of the lamps had burned out, so it was even smokier and dimmer than the meeting room. Knipry slammed the door without suggesting that anyone sit down. It had been a very long afternoon.

“Yes, 700?”

“I have been to Udice.”

His eyes widened. “How? When?”

“The spring of 700. I sailed on my father's boat and we put into Udice to trade for their winter's catch of seal pelts.”

He scowled suspiciously at that, so the other men did the same.

“And they let you go?”

They were thinking of a pirates' fortress. She shrugged and smiled.

“Why not? It's just a very small fishing village at the end of a fiord. It's sheltered by cliffs and has good water. Maybe four hundred people, eighty able-bodied men at most. But I think we can snuff Captain Shark there.” She could sense the favor of the goddess. “In fact, I am sure of it.”

The old man frowned. “Everybody sit!” Even before all buttocks were in place, he barked, “
How?
”

“How many men does Shark have? Three or four hundred?” She saw her audience fidget. They wanted no analyses from her, only facts; so she switched to facts. “When sou'westers blow—as they usually do at this time of year—it is very easy to get into Udice and almost impossible to get out. By the time they know we're coming, they're trapped.”

Four men seemed to deflate like bubbles.

Knipry sighed. “And how do we get there? Galleys can't put out in this weather, my dear. They lack enough freeboard. About a third of the allied craft have gone home for the winter, anyway, and most of our own are in dry dock, being refitted.” He started to rise—stupid child, wasting time.

“Why galleys?”

He sat down again. “The Empire has little else.”

She was nodding to show that she had read the reports. “But fishing boats go out in winter. Sea hunters do. Let's requisition a hundred of their boats. Pack twenty marines in each, a dozen would do. If the goddess wills, a sou'wester will have us at Udice in eight or ten days. If they try to break out, we swarm them like bees. The beach there is too long to defend, so Shark's men can't stop us landing. If they try to escape inland, we take their ships and let them die in the desert while we wait for a northerly to blow us home again.”

Objections exploded like the beat of raindrops on the shutters: rations, seasickness, water casks, the fleet scattered by storms, lost in fog, compensation … Irona just sat, watching old Knipry, who was listening to the clamor and saying nothing.

Finally he leered. “I can't wait to see those fat-cat officer slobs with their fancy brass helmets being ordered aboard stinking little fishing boats. It's an insane idea, but it's worth looking into. I can laugh myself to sleep at nights just thinking about it. You can have a committee. Who do you want?”

Irona glanced around the group and shot an inquiring glance at the youngest one there, after herself. Fialovi 694 was another Ledacos client, and so her natural choice. He nodded vigorously.

Knipry rose. “The kiddies have it, then. Report as soon as possible. Absolute secrecy.” He turned to the door and then paused. “Is there anything else we can't postpone until another day? In that case, let's go, get ourselves fancied up, and prepare to face the music.”

He led the way back into the Council Chamber and adjourned the meeting. On the way out, he whispered to Irona, “Well done, my dear!”

“You're welcome, darling,” she retorted, but not until he was safely out of earshot.

Wherever she went, Chosen Trodelat required her escort, Captain Jamarko, to trot alongside her litter. Perhaps he smelled no worse while streaming sweat than his leather-based armor did at any other time. Irona was kinder to Vlyplatin, insisting that he travel in a litter also. One evening, about a month after becoming her escort, he had sent for a double sedan chair instead, so they traveled together, facing each other. She approved and that became their practice. That was how they went to the Navy Ball on that stormy night, with eight bearers, four guards behind, and two link boys running ahead to light the way.

The Navy Ball was the highlight of the social year, crammed with ship captains, office staff, senior navy contractors, and their respective wives or, in very rare cases, husbands. All the Seventy were there with their consorts. Even the First's Palace could barely hold such a number, and senior Chosen had to wait in line to disembark from their litters or carrying chairs.

There was music, but the floors were too packed for dancing, which Irona regretted. Dancing was one of the few things she could do better than almost all the rest of the Seventy. Instead of dancing there was drinking, circulating, and gossip. There was ogling, too, but there she was mostly the oglee, rarely the ogler. As the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, Vlyplatin also received his share of appraising glances due to his flawless profile, and that night he was looking even more godlike than usual in a tunic of gold samite. Youth helped, of course.

Once Irona found herself close to Fialovi 694. “I can't make it tomorrow until late,” he said.

That suited her well; she had plans for the day. “Come to dinner.” It was her committee; it would meet at Sebrat House.

He shook his head. “Love to, but it will have to be after dinner.”

“I'll wait up,” she promised.

They drifted apart in the crowd. Vlyplatin did not ask; she did not tell. She never discussed business with him.

But later she ran into Ledacos and his latest consort, who looked younger than Irona and was voluptuous in the style of gravid sea lions. He was fickle, changing mistresses frequently.

Polite chitchat was exchanged. Then: “Did you ask her?” he demanded of Vlyplatin, without preamble.

Vlyplatin's answer flashed back. “She won't tell me, sir. You'll have to ask her yourself.”

“That would not be polite,” Ledacos said regretfully. He leaned close to Irona and whispered in her ear, “I never got a committee of my own on the Navy Board until my second term, and I was six years older than you are.”

Evidently Fialovi had been blabbing to their mutual patron, although a topic classed as Absolute Secrecy was restricted to the members of the board, so he should not have revealed even that much.

Delighted by Ledacos's admission, Irona just shrugged. “You should shave your legs more often, darling.”

Ledacos exploded in laughter and spilled his wine. He was more than slightly drunk, but probably everyone was by then. Irona was, and she had a hard day ahead. Not long after that encounter, she told Vlyplatin to take her home.

She always took the comfortable side of chair, the one that would most often face uphill, so she was at the front as their bearers ran down the endless hills and stairs from the First's Palace. For a while they sat in silence in the dark, listening to rain pounding on the roof, Irona tilted backward, Vlyplatin with his feet braced against her seat, his hands clasping straps to keep himself from sliding off his own bench. Vly, as she thought of him now, was incredibly attentive to her moods. If she did not speak, neither would he. If she wanted to talk, she chose the topic and he followed her lead. In fact, if Vly had a fault, it was that he was almost invisible, he so completely hid his own wishes.