Irona 700

by Dave Duncan

  The old man dithered for a moment. Then, to her dismay, he referred the question to Banahaw 688. Banahaw was third youngest of the Sevens, after Ledacos, but he was a blustering firebrand, and even less reliable than Dilivost. If he had the file, then the results might be even worse than she feared.

  “Genodesa, Lenoch, and Vyada Kun,” he proclaimed, “were the most egregious renegades. A few minor entities offered various excuses, but those three must be dealt with first. Lenoch and Vyada Kun did not respond at all. The king of Genodesa sailed, then had second thoughts and returned to port. Lenoch is the easiest nut to crack, so naturally we shall deal with it first. Zard 699 is already on his way there with our final terms.”

  “Which are?”

  “One thousand boys and twelve hundred girls, plus ten members of their council, chosen at random.”

  Irona shuddered. “You expect them to send their children into slavery without a struggle? Or their rulers to surrender themselves to the ‘mercy’ for which we are so famous?”

  “Of course not.” The idiot smirked. Others must have supported him so far, but they were leaving the defense to him.

  “So next you declare open rebellion? You invade, loot, pillage, and raze?”

  “That is putting it too harshly, but the cowards must learn the cost of betrayal. We cannot tolerate such insubordination. The whole concept of empire is founded on—”

  “Is founded on bluff!” she shouted, and the effort brought a stab of pain from her knee.

  The rest of the company remained silent. Ledacos was smiling innocently at the ceiling. Did no one else see the precipice ahead?

  “You are provoking civil war when our army and those of our truly loyal allies are far inland, at Achelone.”

  Idiot Banahaw swelled like a pouter pigeon. “We have other allies. The smaller states and cities that did not respond or did so halfheartedly will be eager to make amends by aiding us in putting down the rebels.”

  “Why should they?” Irona asked softly, and for a moment the silence was deafening. Ledacos pursed his lips.

  Irona charged ahead. “Do you think either the king of Genodesa or the senate of Vyada Kun is too stupid to see that they must be next, after Lenoch? Those nations love their children too. They will combine against us, all of them, and the next thing you know there will be an assault on Benign itself and overthrow of the Empire.”

  Protests erupted, both pro and con her statements. The First made clucking noises like a broody hen, but failed to obtain order. It was Banahaw himself who got it, red-faced and bellowing that he had the floor and had the right to respond to the slurs.

  “This action was approved by the Seventy, by a large majority. What else would you do? Ignore this insult to our Empire and our goddess?”

  “Have you finished?” Irona asked, and waited until he grumpily resumed his seat. When the honor of the Empire was in question, the Seventy would support any idiotic measures trumpeted by tub-thumping patriots. That did not make them right, though.

  “No, I would not ignore the insult. But I would not punish the innocent along with the guilty. I would demand that the senators in Lenoch who voted against helping the Empire be handed over to us for trial, although I might guarantee that they would not have to face the death penalty. If the city fails to conform—which it probably will, because the same senate must decide on its response—then I would blockade their harbors and embargo their trade. After that, when the guilty were eventually handed over, I would put them to the sea death. And after that I would demand an explanation from the king of Genodesa … and so on. Persons are a lot easier to punish than states or cities, ’88.”

  They promised to think it over and departed, in their litters or sedan chairs, all except Ledacos, who left on foot and doubled back as soon as the rest had gone. Irona had been expecting him.

  “They are insane,” he said. “We have had our differences in the past, 700, but we’ve got to pull together on this. They shouted me down, but they’ll have to listen to you.”

  “Let’s hope so,” she said. “Give me a couple of days.”

  Three days and a dozen meetings later, Irona had matters under control. She had called in every Chosen whom she could by any stretch regard as a client or who just owed her a favor, and she had convinced them that beating up your most powerful allies when your own forces were far away was a very bad idea. Ledacos himself was dispatched with fresh orders for Zard.

  Few people would have agreed with her, but Irona was convinced that she had just saved the Empire for the second time that year.

  As fall wore on, news drifted in that Dilivost 678 had arrived in Achelone to find that it was making a good recovery from the Gren invasion. The citizens had begun setting up a republic that would be more genuinely democratic than the rule of the unlamented Sakar Semeru. Dilivost typically failed to adjust his thinking to an unexpected situation. Bullheadedly following Irona’s orders, he proclaimed a protectorate with himself as overseer. When the locals objected, he began slaughtering them for their own good.

  This was too much even for the hotheads in the Seventy. Fialovi 694 was sent over to repair as much of the damage as possible, and Dilivost slunk home in disgrace. At the first meeting of the Seventy after his return, he was elected in short order to three totally insignificant jobs. Aware that there were a dozen more such horrors on the agenda, he took the hint and begged leave to resign from the Seven, “to devote the necessary time to these important responsibilities.” He would never be trusted with significant office again.

  It was winter by the time the ships began to return. Husbands, lovers, brothers, and sons were awarded their bonus gold and sent home to their families. Not all were accounted for. Irona was not the only mother worrying about a lost son.

  Late on an especially foul winter evening, when Irona and Veer were sitting by a crackling fire, chatting with Komev 701 and his consort—were in fact trying to persuade them to stay the night—Edziza came in to whisper in Irona’s ear that she had an important visitor. By then she could hobble on a crutch, so Veer helped her rise and she went out to see who could possibly have come calling without notice in such weather.

  He was filthy, with hair tangled and patchy stubble on his lip. His tunic was tattered, and he was in urgent need of a bathtub.

  He rumbled, “Blessings on you, Dam!” in his father’s basso.

  She hurled down the crutch to embrace him with both arms. She had not expected him to return her kiss, but he did, and the rowers’ hands clutching her shoulders were rough as pumice stone.

  “You’ve grown,” she said. “Not just taller, but thicker and broader. Oh, these arms! My boy has become a man.” And he was a man, warm blooded, breathing, not the walking corpse who haunted her worst nightmares.

  “Yes. Want to see my scars? Up and down in front, crosswise on my back.”

  “No! Never! Oh, I am so happy to see you home, love! Your room is all ready. Edziza, have a fire lit in there, please, and the hot bricks in the bed.”

  “Hot bricks and Tiatia,” Podakan said, in tones that implied an ultimatum.

  Irona was not surprised. “Provided she agrees. Even a slave is a person, dear, not an animal to be ordered out to stud. Edziza,” she called after the seneschal, “would you first ask Tiatia if she would like to be reassigned as my son’s concubine.”

  Although Edziza’s face remained expressionless, it somehow confirmed Irona’s opinion that the question was a formality. He stalked off in the direction of the servant stairs.

  “I can’t legally give her to you until you come of age, dear, but I’ll have her assigned then, if she’s still willing. Have you eaten? Why don’t you clean up and get … I’ll find one of Veer’s tunics to fit you. None of your old ones will now. It's a good thing that I have another giant in the house! Then come and tell us all your news. Chosen Komev and his lady are here and we’d lov
e …”

  “Tomorrow,” Podakan said. “Tonight it’s bathe, eat, and then Tiatia, Tiatia, Tiatia. I haven’t had any tail in a week.”

  “That’s boy talk, trying to shock me. Men don’t speak that way.”

  “The men I fight alongside do.” Podakan retrieved her crutch from the corner where Edziza had stood it; he handed it to her. “See you tomorrow, Dam. Go and break the bad news to Fat Man Machin.”

  In some ways he hadn’t changed a bit.

  It was just over a week later that Veer wandered into Irona’s study while she was reading reports and said, “He’s gone.”

  She felt sorrow, but not surprise. “Podakan?”

  “And the girl. With their belongings, such as they are.”

  She sighed and went back to her homework. She was fairly sure that Tiatia had been the only reason her son had come home at all.

  Unfortunately, she was wrong.

  The Year 725

  By summer Irona was working as hard as ever. She had no strength in her crippled knee but had adjusted to walking with a staff and wearing a bronze brace on her leg.

  Her current term as a Seven would end soon after Midsummer, and she was giving thought to which offices she might enjoy during her year’s sabbatical as a Six. It was a measure of her status now that she could choose and be confident of getting whatever she wanted. A place on the Treaty Commission would be coming vacant in a month and would be a new venture for her. The present holder, Zard 699, would make a good Seven if the old guard among the Chosen could be persuaded to elect a stripling of forty-two. So many ancients had died off during the winter that there were now as many Chosen younger than she as there were older. Irona found this disturbing, and she wasn’t the only one to have noticed the increased workload.

  She wore long gowns to hide her brace. It occurred to her during one interminable meeting that she would soon be changing back from Seven purple to Chosen sea green and must order a suitable wardrobe. While she had let her attention wander—another sign of advancing age!—Ledacos nominated her for something.

  She had the Chosens’ permission to remain seated during meetings, but did not use it. She heaved herself to her feet and bowed to the First. What was Ledacos up to? She was not allowed to nominate an opponent, although she could easily signal to a follower to do so, but she daren’t do that until she knew what office was being filled. Definitely senile!

  Nobody rose to oppose her, so she graciously accepted election by acclamation. Mallahle 669, the evening’s chair, announced that the next item was election of a male tutor for the choosing, which informed Irona that she had just been appointed female tutor. That was a very minor office, not normally awarded to Sevens, but a fine example of Ledacos’s malicious humor, a gibe that she might thus gain a daughter to replace her lost son.

  Irona promptly nominated Zard 699 for male tutor, as this should give them a couple of hours together, when she could broach the subject of his potential promotion. He looked peeved at not having been consulted beforehand, but dutifully came to the front and bowed to Rudakov on his throne. He was plump now, Zard, and a grandfather, a long way from the skinny boy who had clipped the collar around Irona’s neck a quarter of a century ago. He, too, was elected by acclamation.

  They met in the temple, early on Midsummer Day, and Irona was able to explain to him why she had sprung the tutor job on him without warning.

  “A Seven?” Zard’s eyes, always prominent, now bulged. “Me?”

  She laughed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it! But when Ledacos sprang this vigil on me, I decided it offered an excellent chance for you and me to spend a few undisturbed hours discussing how we get you elected, and for you to advise me on the Treaty Board. I can’t speak nine hundred languages, you know.” The standard joke among the Chosen was that 699 was growing suicidal trying to find another language to learn, because he knew them all.

  “The Treaty Board may not be the best use of your abilities, Irona. This Elbrus thing is—”

  In rushed last year’s Chosen, Apolima 724, all a-fluster. Irona explained that she had to wait downstairs and would find the 725 collar ready for her there. Zard summoned a junior priest to guide her.

  Then Irona and Zard sat down to wait for the priests to bring them breakfast.

  “As I was saying,” Zard continued, “the dispute with Elbrus is going to need a special—”

  Trumpets sounded.

  “Sounds like they’re starting.” Zard rose and wandered over to the window. “Goddess! Look at them, Irona. They’re only kids. When I put that collar on you, I saw a gorgeous young woman, not a child!”

  She had seen him as an owlish youth, she recalled, but girls of sixteen preferred mature men, at least two years older than themselves. She thanked him for the compliment and went to join him, just as the boy at the head of the first group of pilgrims reached into the coffer and brought out his token.

  “Mind you,” Zard remarked. “Some of the lads there are too hefty to argue with. Like that one in the second group, see?”

  Irona swallowed a few times before she managed to agree. She had completely forgotten that this would have been Podakan’s year to make the pilgrimage, were he eligible. If he had truly masqueraded as a pilgrim last year, as Daun had said, wasn’t he terrified of being recognized by the priests? Well, no. With thousands of adolescents marching by every year, they could not possibly remember every face.

  But he wasn’t eligible, so why was he here? When had he ever turned up early for anything before? He must have been waiting at the temple gate for hours.

  She watched in dread as the boys progressed through the ritual—not many girls had shown up so early. All her fears were realized when that year’s fourteenth candidate’s token stopped on the same spot hers had, so many years ago. The spectators yelled in astonishment, and it took the trumpeters a moment to realize they had to blow the final fanfare already.

  “Looks like we’ll have to postpone our discussion, Irona,” Zard said.

  She mumbled, “Yes.” There was nothing she could do about the latest Chosen. He was an adult now. Not being native-born, he wasn’t eligible to be chosen, but Lavice was a common Benesh family name, so the priests would not have thought to ask unless they had reason to, and they couldn’t ask now. The goddess would not make a mistake! Apolima 724 came running out on the stage—that girl never just walked anywhere—and reached up to fasten the collar around Podakan’s already burly neck.

  Irona said, “I hope it chokes him.”

  Zard spun around. “What?”

  She had not intended to speak aloud. “You are going to have your hands full with that one, Tutor.”

  Not for Podakan the terror or hysterics of most Chosen. The crowd cheered as he waved fists above his head in triumph. Then he grabbed Apolima in both arms and kissed her. The crowd gasped in horror, before managing an uncertain second cheer.

  “I see what you mean.”

  “I never managed to teach him much,” Irona said. “He wears the scars of the knout on his back and Gren claws on his chest. He has his own concubine, by the way.”

  Zard’s eyes looked ready to fall out altogether. “Your son? This is incredible! Caprice has never been known to choose a Chosen’s child before.”

  She hadn’t this time, either. Why, oh why, had Irona not foreseen this? “Let’s go down and congratulate him, shall we?” Oh, Goddess, Goddess!

  In the recovery room, they found Apolima still chalky white with rage at the way Podakan had shamed her in public, and the villain himself enjoying a draft of Source Water. A flash of apprehension crossed his face when he saw Irona, but then he leered triumphantly. She could not denounce his deception now without dooming them both to the sea death.

  “Bless you, Dam! Didn’t expect to see you here. Are you to be my tutor, Your Honor?”

  Then Apolima had to
be told. “Your son? The one you … er …”

  “Flogged,” Podakan finished for her. “Yes. Took the flesh off my back. I’ll show you my scars if you want. Oh, here, Dam, this is yours. I borrowed it.” He handed Irona his empty water bottle. She had never seen it before. He was so smug that she wished somebody would throttle him.

  Apolima clapped her hands. “So Holy Caprice is showing her appreciation of …” She hesitated.

  “Her appreciation of my son or her disapproval of me?” Irona asked ironically.

  Podakan found that even funnier. Revenge was proverbially sweet, and he had totally outwitted the mother who had shamed him. “Now I’m a grown-up, so I’ll send Tia over for the assignment paper, Dam.”

  “That’s up to your tutor,” Irona said, and was pleased to see her son at a loss, even if momentarily.

  “Tia is the concubine?” Zard asked. “I think you should assign her to me, 700. I can decide what her duties will be.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” Irona said. Ownership of Tiatia would give Zard some hold over his diabolical protégé.

  Veer hated to be interrupted when he was working, but the moment Irona got home she thumped into his studio and insisted he stop what he was doing, find a lantern, and escort her down to the cellar.

  He gave her an odd look. “May I reserve judgment on your sanity?”

  “The new Chosen is Podakan 725.”

  “What?”

  “And I should have guessed. Come along.”

  The cellar was fairly small, for Sebrat House was built on a steep hillside, where cellars tended to leak during winter rains, causing anything stored in them to rot and fall apart. It had been a dozen years since Irona hid the bucket she was searching for, and much had changed since then in the way of furniture brought down to be stored or removed to be disposed of. When she did find it, the evidence was obvious.