by Dave Duncan
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 It was almost never granted before a Chosen reached forty, and very rarely withdrawn later.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 Ir
ona 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?”
“No, ma’am. I remember everything I see.”
The Geographical Section might be interested in Veer Machin.
“Well, sit over there. I’m going to be interviewing some clerks. I prefer that you do not interrupt.”
Soon she forgot all about him. Only when all the interviews were over and she was due to leave for a meeting of the Customs Board did she realize that he was still sitting there, hands on knees, staring stonily at her.
“Anything more? Seen all you need?”
“All I need to start, ma’am. But I need for you to sit for me when I do the waxing itself.”
Oh, did he? “And how long does that take?”
“About six or seven sessions, ma’am. An hour or so each. You’ll get tired if it’s longer.”
She almost laughed in his face. But it was a comely, honest, well-meaning face that did not deserve to be laughed in. She had expected a laborer, like a tiler or a bricklayer, but he didn’t really look like one. He didn’t look at her the way an artisan would.
“Have you any idea …” Of course he didn’t. She couldn’t possibly waste that much time just to put her face on the Palace wall. But if he could do his waxing sitting in that same corner and she could continue her own work at the same time, doing nonconfidential things … “Talk to my aides, and they’ll find you a corner—”
“It has to be at my place, ma’am. I have waxes and colors and boards and easels … I’d fill your office and turn it into a … midden …” His voice tailed away uncertainly.
Irona was giving him her look for crushing admirals.
“And where is your place?”
“Corner of Gutter Road and Suicide, ma’am.”
That was surprisingly close to Sebrat House, not down among the docks and slums. “How on earth can you afford to live there?”
“Selling portraits, ma’am.”
Come to think of it, Veer Machin did not speak like a laborer. He spoke like people who lived on the Mountain; the First had recommended him. Irona was suddenly intrigued.
“Suppose I stop by for an hour this evening on my way home? I may not—”
He beamed. “That would be splendid, ma’am!”
She had meant to say that she could not promise more than two or at the most three sittings. … Well, she would see what his place looked like and what sort of portraits he produced.
The Machin residence appeared to be on the flat roof of a six-story building, but the ground was very close to vertical there, and the entrance was at the rear, a gate at the top of a single flight of stairs. As a Seven, Irona had to tolerate an official escort from the Palace guard wherever she went, which made her personal guards furious and surly—another problem to sort out. The chief guard inspected the premises before he would let her enter, and then he wanted to post men inside with her. Irona smote him with thunder and lightning. He and his men could wait on the steps if they wanted to; her chair could return in an hour. Then she stalked up the stairs and shut the gate firmly behind her.
She was in a small yard with whitewashed walls, three of the four sides overhung by projecting roofs. A door and a single window opposite the gate led into a shed, which could not possibly contain more than one small room. The ground was almost invisible under jars, boxes, wood shavings, work benches, stacks of panels, easels, braziers, sacks, bottles, and other miscellaneous clutter. Machin must work outdoors as much as he could, which in Benign would be most of the year. As she entered, he was adjusting a large easel. He spun around and tried to kneel without finishing what he was doing. The easel collapsed, knocking over another, and dislodging a stack of wooden panels. He finished sitting among the ruins, looking dismayed.
Irona had put in a long hard day, but the big man’s expression was so pathetic that she laughed aloud. Scrambling to his feet, he sent a jar flying off a table. It shattered in an explosion of red powder. He looked at her doubtfully, then suddenly grinned, reassured.
“My mother used to tell me I’d never make a juggler, ma’am.”
“I can’t think why you’d want to. Show me … show me this!” She picked her way through the chaos to one of the sheltering overhangs. The First himself was sitting there in his red robes, three-quarter length. His eyes watched her approach and he looked ready to speak. Irona had not known there could be portraits like that. Compared to this, the portraits in the Treaty Hall were daubs.
She turned to the artist, who was waiting anxiously for her reaction.
“Did First Knipry tell you to let me see this?”
He nodded, looking as shy as a small boy.
She said, “And did he come here to pose for it?”
Another nod.
“He’s a sly old devil. Now, where do you want me to sit?”
“Oh, here, ma’am!” Machin grabbed up a chair. The back came off in his hand, and his elbow knocked over another easel.
So it began. Irona stopped by every evening on her way home, as close to the same sun height as possible. She sat on a very hard stool and stared at the same swallows’ nest under the eaves. He talked while he worked. She talked, too, smiled when he asked her to, and often when he didn’t, for he had a dry, self-deprecating humor. It was a wonderfully relaxing break in the day, as long as she didn’t think about the child at home, waiting on his mother’s return.
Machin had strange ideas about the social gulf between a dauber and a Seven. During the second session, he suddenly said, “Stop talking.”
Indeed? She stopped, mostly because she was speechless.
“And don’t look
at me like that!” he barked. “You want to sneer at the Treaty Hall for the next thousand years?”
He refused to let her see his work. He worked in encaustic, spreading colored wax with a spatula. Encaustic was never impressive until it was finished, he said. It was lumpy and ugly, but at the end he would smooth it out with a hot iron, and then it would be complete. But he seemed to be working on more than one panel, often discarding one halfway through a sitting and grabbing up another.
The six or seven sittings stretched into nine, then ten. And one evening he stopped work altogether to stare straight at her with an expression of extreme frustration.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“What the shit did you do to Vlyplatin Lavice?”
What? Irona drew a deep breath. …
“That’s it!” he yelled. “Hold that! Yes, yes!” Like a madman, he began slashing and scraping at her portrait, sending shreds and curls of wax flying everywhere.
“What are you doing?” For a moment she thought he had gone crazy. She sprang from the stool and ran to him. She was far too late. The portrait had vanished, reduced to a faint and lumpy ghost.
But Machin was leering triumphantly down at her. “You never were the grinning jackanapes I was trying to paint. Putting spotty boys and giggling girls at ease in your office? ‘Do please relax and tell me why you want to work for the Republic. …’ But Governor Irona 700 about to send me to the gallows? That’s the Irona I needed to see!”
“What do you know about Vlyplatin?”
“Nothing. Just public gossip and I don’t care if I never know. I wanted to make the lioness roar, that’s all.” That lopsided, boyish grin again. … “For a moment there, I really thought you were going to have my head.”
“You are crazy!”
He shrugged. “Probably. Do you ever wear jewelry?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“Only my collar, which the goddess gave me. I own nothing else in the world, not even the clothes on my back.”
He nodded. “That’s good. I’ll paint that in, too.” He hurled the panel across the yard and picked up a fresh one. “Now we start over.”
