by Dave Duncan
Ledacos never gave up. “He’s got a couple of hours yet. He won’t start screaming until he has to move his feet. Tell me who you have for certain …”
“No! Tell me how many other people have tried to get these two thieves out and have died in their beds before the vote.”
“Don’t know of any deaths,” he insisted. “Several have withdrawn because of ill health, which may just mean threats. But we can get around that by not revealing your name. You and I and a couple of other patrons will campaign for a Candidate X, whom we praise as a man of incomparable honesty. Your name is never mentioned until I nominate you. By then it’s too late to curse or threaten you, and we shoot you out of town as fast as possible to take up your post.”
So it wasn’t going to be our bandwagon, as he had said earlier. It would be the Ledacos 692 bandwagon. He would round up forty or so votes with this story, using danger to keep his collaborators’ names secret, and establish himself as a potent power broker. Granted, he would be taking some risk himself if the Maleficence dealers got word of the plan.
“The answer is still no,” she said. “But I will try to line up as many votes as I can for whoever you nominate.”
He sighed. “That’s what they all say. So tell me who I should ask next.”
“You could volunteer yourself, clean up Vult, and be a shoo-in at the next Seven election.”
He sighed. “I may have to, but field commands are not my forte.”
The water was surging above the condemned man’s knees before Ledacos finally accepted defeat and left Irona in peace. Soon she wished she had kept him there to continue distracting her.
Jamarko was a very strong man, and Caprice punished him in full measure for his crime.
As the state galley returned to Benign, the Chosen aboard divided into two groups. One, including Irona, stood under the stern awning in a numb silence broken only by the creak of oars and the tap of the coxswain’s hammer. Even little Dychat 702 was not chattering, for the first time since he was chosen. The rest, connoisseurs of the grisly spectacle, gathered at the bow to discuss the finer points of the traitor’s death. Most agreed that Jamarko had put on the best such show in years.
The navy docks were crammed with sedan chairs and their bearers. Vlyplatin had thought to order Irona’s house guards to meet them there with a hired chair. It was a single. That was good thinking, too, for a double would be slower in such a crowd.
Vly appraised her expression. “Home, ma’am?”
“Straight home, double time.” Never in her life before had she felt an urge to drink herself senseless.
She collapsed into the chair and Vly closed the drape. Even with the guards clearing the way, the bearers made slow progress at first, but once they left the docks, the streets and stairways were fairly clear on the holiday, and Vly could shout for double time. And shout. And again. Irona realized how hot it was, even for a Midsummer noon. She should not have asked for double time.
When the chair was set down at Sebrat House, she went straight in, to the welcome shade and comparative coolness. Vly stayed to pay off the team, but he was right behind her as she entered her bedroom. She went and sat on the edge of the bed; he closed the door.
“Water!” she said.
He brought it. His tunic clung to him as if he had swum in it, his hair was plastered to his forehead. His face was brick red, and his shoulders still heaved. In fact, he looked aroused, but she had more tact than to say so.
She drank. He just stood there and panted.
“It was ghastly,” she said. “Did you see?”
“No. I went back to the barge.”
“At the end he was a lump of raw meat with bones showing, and he was still trying to breathe! Why didn’t they just hang him?”
“Why didn’t they just let him go?”
She had raised the goblet for a second drink when she realized what he had said. It was totally unlike Vly.
“He murdered a Chosen! He killed a woman with his bare hands!”
“I don’t suppose he owned gloves. The bitch deserved it.”
“Vly!”
“Yes, she did! She treated him like a dog. I watched her do it a hundred times—taunting him, belittling him, telling her friends he was sterile when he was standing right beside her.”
“That does not excuse murder!”
“What she did at the end did!”
Irona tried to tell him to stop, and he shouted her down.
“… threw him out to starve. No money. Nowhere to go. No education or skill except fighting, and he was too old for that. You wouldn’t do that to a dog.”
Hand trembling, she set the beaker down on the bedside table. “I hope I do not treat you like a dog?”
“No. Furniture, yes, but not a dog.”
Dismay! “Furniture?” she whispered.
“You dust me once in a while. Take a rest and recover from your ordeal. I have to bathe.” He turned to the door.
“Vlyplatin Lavice, you come right back here. If you have complaints, then please state them.”
He looked back but left his feet where they were. “I’ve tried. You don’t hear me.”
Goddess! This was much worse than she had realized. “What have you ever asked me for that I refused you?”
“Children.”
Her mouth opened and closed and said nothing. Maybe he had. Yes, he had. She had not taken him seriously. Did men really want children? Her father had merely tolerated his as the price of pleasure. She had thought only women really cared about children and that she was odd in having other ambitions.
“I am mortal,” Vly said, “and proud of my heritage. I wish to leave something behind me when I go. It is not a rare desire.” He opened the door.
“Wait!” she cried. “Close it. Let me think a moment.”
“You have had years to think. I have done my best for you. I am a very efficient, well-trained, and obedient gigolo and escort. But if I now fail to give satisfaction, you can do what your friend did. I promise not to break your neck for it. There is not a wide market for my skills, but I still have most of my hair and all of my teeth, so—”
“Stop!” She shut her eyes. How could she possibly serve the goddess and rear a child at the same time?
Or was this the hand of the goddess again at last? The butchery at Execution Point, Ledacos’s plotting, and now this sudden lovers’ quarrel, all on the same day. The first hard words between them in six years! Capricious, very capricious!
“I am sorry,” Vly said softly. He had come to kneel in front of her, silent on the rug. He took her hands in his. She could smell his sweat. “I should not have said any of those horrible things, ma’am. Not when you were so upset. May I please go and make myself respectable, as befits the majordomo of a Chosen, an office I am honored to hold?”
She opened her eyes. She gripped his arms.
“I want you to do something first. Run next door and see Ledacos 692. If he isn’t home, you must find him. Tell them it’s very urgent, because it is. It is also very secret, so you tell only him.”
“And the message, ma’am?”
“Tell him I will take the job he suggested. That’s all.”
Her lover wanted a child, and Vult would solve her conflict of interest. Pregnancy and childbirth while attending three or four meetings a day would be too much for anyone, but her duties at Vult should leave her lots of time for a private life, plus welcome privacy from the carnivorous gossips of Benign.
Vly did not know what was involved. He said, “Yes, ma’am,” in the same cold tones. “And then may I bathe?”
“Yes, but as soon as you’d done that, come back here and put a baby in me.”
“Oh, yes!” He grinned like a baby himself. “I hear and obey, My Queen!”
“I have told you never to call me that.”
&nb
sp; “But you are my queen and I will give you a prince if it kills me.”
The tension in the Scandal Market was almost as oppressive as the lingering heat of the day. Leaves and flowers drooped; people clung together in clusters, not circulating as usual. There was almost no laughter.
Irona had sensed the same mood a few times before, when a hard-fought election for Seven was scheduled. Yet tonight’s agenda seemed bland, and normally the only worry about a vote to determine the next governor of Vult would be the danger of winning such a horrible honor. In theory, Chosen who refused election or scrimped on their duties could be stripped of everything except their jade collars and exiled to Maasok, a barely habitable islet far out in the ocean. In practice, everyone tried to be fair because they all knew that someday it might be their turn. If Redkev 676 were to protest that Vult had been foisted on him three times already, he would certainly be excused and the curse laid on someone else.
But now that Ledacos’s campaign had drawn attention to the Redkev-Zajic juggling act, the stakes were much higher. In the end, Irona had approached only six people, because the others she had suggested were either on Ledacos’s own list or on other lists that he knew of. To all six she had pointed out this sinister alternation of one highly undesirable posting and the possible connection with the illicit trade in fixes. Ledacos 692, she had explained, had obtained the willing consent of an honest and effective candidate, who would accept the election as a chance to investigate affairs in Vult and root out any corruption uncovered. A candidate, in short, who would accept the posting as an important challenge, not an unfair exile. All six had agreed that it was wise to leave the white knight unnamed at present in case the dealers struck at him before the vote; they had all promised to support the man Ledacos nominated. They could always renege, of course, if they didn’t like the candidate in question. No one dreamed of sending a woman to Vult.
Redkev 676 himself was there, standing on the outskirts and happily chatting with Seven Kapalny, who had solemnly promised Irona he would vote for Ledacos’s nominee. Redkev was a huge man, a sea-green bear bulging inside his gown. His collar probably contained twice as many plates as Irona’s and was half buried in jowls. Stooped and silver haired, he looked older than his number warranted, but long residences in Vult would have deprived him of the benefits of Source Water, for beneficial springs could not exist so close to the Dread Lands. His decay emphasized how well preserved other Chosen were.
Ledacos was not there! Alarmed, Irona walked across the sun-shriveled grass to a different vantage point, but still could not see him. She looked for Dychat 702 instead. That was trickier, because he was much shorter than most of the Chosen and even some of the bushes. Six years of good food and Source Water had worked marvels on the rachitic child who had wept on being chosen, but he had never salvaged the growth he had missed. Ledacos had been his tutor and thereafter his patron, and he remained Ledacos’s shadow, a chatterbox shadow, although Ledacos excused him by reporting that he never spilled secrets.
Dychat was not there either.
The gong sounded to summon the Chosen to the council. Redkev was one of the first to respond, walking alone, his face giving away nothing. It seemed likely that he or his backers had learned of the conspiracy against him and had found a good way to block it, for the opposition was sworn to vote for Ledacos’s nominee: no Ledacos, no nominee. Irona could ask someone else to nominate her, but she was not certain that she was the only “volunteer” the wily Ledacos had enlisted. He never let his thumbs know what his fingers were doing.
The Chosen filed into the Assembly Hall, relieved to be out of the sun. First Knipry strode in with a train of six Sevens, the last of whom was tonight’s chairman, Byakal 633. He was incredibly old, but still as sharp as his sword had been in the service of the Republic, many long years ago.
There was shouting at the back. Heads turned. The great door slammed, but Dychat 702 had talked his way in at the last possible instant. He ran forward to take a seat, bowed hastily to the First, and raked the crowd with nervous eyes until he located Irona.
Secretaries conferred, double-checked numbers, and submitted a slate to the chairman. Byakal cleared his throat and excused the three Sevens and two Chosen who were absent from the city on state business. Ledacos 692, however, had not requested permission to absent himself and was not in attendance.
Dychat sprang to his feet, almost dancing in his need to be recognized. Byakal’s neighbor drew the chairman’s attention to the lad and whispered his number.
“Chosen 702?”
“Your Reverence, honored Chosen—” His voice was a squeak. “I regret to inform you that Ledacos 692 was taken suddenly ill about an hour ago. He is chuck … er, vomiting, and has the, um, bowel disorder. It started when he found a black feather on his dressing table!”
All eyes went to Redkev 676, who frowned at this silent accusation. If he had not foreseen trouble earlier, he must do so now.
Old Byakal called the meeting to order with a cough. “Then we excuse Ledacos 692’s absence and wish him a quick recovery. The first item on—”
Dychat sat down.
The First had risen. This was the first time since his election that Knipry had intervened in a debate of the Assembly.
“Honored 702, did the honorable Ledacos give you any instructions regarding tonight’s business?”
Suddenly Irona was certain that the originator of the Vult plot had not been Ledacos, but Knipry himself. It had his tooth marks on it.
Dychat stood up, pale at being singled out by the First. He nodded, then found his voice again. “He asked me to nominate … a certain person … Your Reverence. …”
Knipry gave him a grandfatherly nod and smile. “In that case, Honored Chairman, I ask that the Assembly go at once to Item Seven on the order tablet.” Gathering his red robes, he sat down.
Byakal’s air of surprise was not convincing. “The Assembly thanks His Reverence for this guidance. Item Seven: Election of a governor for the fortress at Vult, a term of two years or until relieved, the stipend to be ten—Goddess, is that all? I call for nominations.”
Young Dychat bounced up again like a leaping dolphin and screamed, “I nominate Irona 700!”
Nominations were neither applauded nor jeered. In the expectant hush, Irona rose and walked to the front, wondering why being posted to the barren Dread Lands of the north for two whole years should feel like a triumph. She bowed to the First and then to the Assembly.
Redkev was frantically trying to signal to Seven Kapalny, but Kapalny had been struck with inexplicable impairment of vision. He nominated Redkev 676, who then had no choice but to heave up his bulk and proceed to the front.
There were no more nominations. No one, even Kapalny, raised a hand for Redkev.
Everyone else voted for his opponent. That was the moment for applause; it rolled and echoed around the chamber.
Again the First intervened, this time requesting immediate consideration of Items Ten and Eleven, neither of which was clearly explained on the order slate. Item Ten turned out to be a brief notice, read by the chairman, that the Seven had approved certain recommendations from the Army Board, one of which was a new commander for Vult. Item Eleven was a joint request from the Geographical Section and the Office of Decency—respectively, the secret police and the witch-hunters—for permission to question Chosen Redkev and, when available, Zajic 677. This was approved without dissent.
As the fat man slunk out to meet whatever fate awaited him, Irona noticed the First beaming his best grandfatherly smile at her. She had been a Knipry favorite ever since she announced her plan to deal with Captain Shark. She had gone to Udice for him, and now he was sending her to Vult.
By then Irona had graduated to an office one floor down from the attics, with two chairs and a larger table. When she arrived there the following morning, whom should she find waiting but Sazen Hostin, he
r gnomish agent in the Geographical Section. He smiled his rabbity teeth at her but did not quite wiggle his ears. She did not invite him to sit.
He offered her a report, a stack of four wooden tablets, whose tiny, cramped writing would require at least two hours’ study.
“A report on recent increases in the fixes trade in the Empire, ma’am.”
“I think I have already read that,” she said.
“Chosen Ledacos’s copy, I expect? Virtually identical, but we always insert very slight changes, so that we can trace any leaks back to their source.”
She had not known that. What she did know now was that almost every Chosen used bribery to milk information out of the Geographical Section and she was grossly overpaying Sazen. The Seven knew what was happening, because they had all done it themselves in the past, and it saved them having to pay the clerks much. In a sense, the corruption kept the clerks honest, because they did not wish to risk losing such incredibly profitable employment. The Seven might even decide which secrets could be leaked and which couldn’t. But now Sazen had just volunteered something, which was a first, perhaps a sign of Irona’s growing status.
She pointed at a chair, the first time she had ever given him leave to sit in her presence. “Now tell me about the ghouls. Not the legends or the bogeyman stories, the truth behind them. What did Eboga and Eldborg really fight?”
He sat and folded his hands on his lap. He did not ask why she had helped to engineer her own election to the governorship without finding out about the enemy first. The reason, of course, was that such questions would have advertised her candidacy.
“The records support the legends, ma’am. They were called the Shapeless because witnesses often disagreed. One man might see a great serpent and another a corpse riding on a dog’s back. Giant spiders or carpets of rats. Beautiful naked women with fangs were a popular choice. They never appeared in direct sunlight, rarely in daytime at all.”
“But they were real, not just illusions?”
“Oh, yes. Real enough to bite chunks out of men, or tear them apart. Swords and spears and fire would kill them, and then they often crumbled to dust.”
