by Dave Duncan
In 734, she turned fifty. By the standards of the Chosen, she looked much older, for she had never recovered the years she had lost in Vult and Kell without Source Water. Veer had grown fatter, but he remained undisputed champion among the artists of the Empire. Podakan had thickened, as men do after adolescence, but no one would have mistaken his brawn for fat. He fretted for action and admitted that he longed for another war.
In 734, he got his wish.
The Seventy were called into emergency session. The Treaty Commission presented an appeal from the city of Severny, complaining of raiding by the hill tribes of Muhavura, complete with the usual slaughter, looting, raping, and slaving. Navy reported that it could ship out a thousand men at dawn and muster at least ten thousand from the allies within a month.
Irona happened to be in the chair, but all she could remember about Muhavura was the story Jamarko had told her on her first day as a Chosen, how he had been born there and how lucky he had been to be enslaved. She watched the youngsters fidget in their seats until enough elders had mumbled enough speeches about waiting for more information, considering fiscal implications, and generally doing as little as possible. She recognized Podakan just before he exploded with impatience. He leaped to his feet.
“Your Reverence, what good is our Empire if not for mutual defense? That is what we promise. Here is an ally screaming for help as its men are slaughtered, its children stolen, its women violated—and we sit here talking of taxes? It is our sacred duty. …” He was not a great speaker, but he was loud and he could make his point when he felt strongly about something. Again and again, he roared, these barbarians who lived within the boundaries of the Empire had turned their savagery on peaceable people who depended on Benign to defend their homes, their loved ones … and so on.
The old guard—and Irona was old guard now—listened stony faced. The firebrand young nodded and applauded. She wondered which way Ledacos would go. He could carry more votes than anyone except herself, and on this problem she had no strong feelings. It was obvious that Benign would have to do something, but what and how much? Send one thousand men or ten thousand? Or, as Podakan roared at the end of his diatribe, fifty thousand and wipe the vermin out?
He won applause, everything from standing ovation to a few polite claps. Irona must call for votes in a moment, but another hand rose, and she recognized Borawli 727. The solemn youngster who had been chosen on the day she returned from Elbrus was still a solemn youngster. He was a loner, belonging to no faction, usually working on judicial matters and the Education Board. He rarely spoke in the Assembly, but always made sense when he did.
“Your Reverence, as the noble Chosen are aware, Muhavura is a peninsula, fertile around its coast, where we count several prosperous cities among our allies. The center is mountainous and good for little but herding. I repeat these well-known truths because none of the previous speakers has mentioned the value of the hill people to our city and Empire.”
A few of Podakan’s supporters made scoffing noises, which Borawli ignored.
“In peaceful times the hill folk trade wool and hides to the cities, who trade them to us, but they are valuable beyond that. They breed strong people! They breed far too many strong people. About every three generations, as our history shows, one tribe or another finds itself crowded to the point of starvation. Rarely do they try to take over the neighbors’ lands, for those are fiercely defended, and the wealthy farmers and merchants of the coast seem more tempting. The young hill men start raiding. Our allies complain to us. We send an army. We kill off dangerous warriors and capture healthy women and children. Honorable Chosen may have noticed how expensive slaves have become in recent years. The supply we obtained from Elbrus is wearing out.
“Your Reverence, the last Muhavura uprising, in 672, was crushed by Chosen Byakal 633, of noble memory. The culprits that time were the Havrani clan, and they paid a high price, in that Byakal exterminated them. Their neighbors inherited their herds and lands, and peace returned. That was sixty-two years ago, so the timing is not unexpected. But I would caution this noble Assembly that the response should be measured. A good gardener will prune his trees to increase their yield. A forester will pollard his forest to grow fresh timber on the same trunks. Both cut; neither tears out by the roots. Clearly it is time to gather another crop in Muhavura, but let us not destroy the orchard.” He bowed and sat down.
This time the applause was general and accompanied by laughter. Benign would always support a worthy—meaning profitable—cause.
Discussion must now give way to decision. Irona heaved on her staff to stand up, a move that grew harder every year. There had been no formal agenda or time for prior discussion, so first she had to ask: “Your Honors, I put a question to you: Will you decide this matter now? Those responding ‘Aye’ will raise their right hands.”
The motion carried easily.
“I put another question to you: Should the Empire respond to the appeal by our ally, Severny, by sending a fighting force to Muhavura? Those responding ‘Aye’ will raise their right hands.”
Agreement was unanimous.
“I put another question to you. Who should lead this expedition?”
Several Chosen jumped up, but the senior was Ledacos, and he nominated Podakan 725. She was surprised that he had not nominated someone from within his own faction, but Podakan was an obvious candidate, especially after his rousing speech, and nomination by Ledacos made his election virtually certain.
Podakan came striding forward, eyes bright. He bowed to the First and turned to face the Assembly. Now what? The closest to an opposing view had been stated by Borawli 727, but he was no warrior to run against Podakan. By custom he should now nominate his own preference for leader.
Everyone waited. Irona watched whispers passing, lips pursing, heads nodding as the likely nominee was evaluated. It was a long time since he won the great victory of Podakan-Zaozerny, and the boy had shown no signs of disloyalty … this Muhavura nonsense had nothing to do with the Three Kingdoms … worked hard … respectful to his betters. … (Little did they know!) And he was the only military hero they had just then.
Borawli rose and was recognized. He moved that nominations be closed.
Podakan made a two-fisted Yeah! gesture not allowed under normal rules of procedure, but one that could be ignored in the thunder of applause. Irona sat down.
First Mallahle said, “Noble 725, you are appointed admiral and marshal to lead a force to the aid of our allies in Muhavura. You have the floor.”
Podakan did not hesitate an instant. He might have been rehearsing his response for years. “Your Reverence, I would consult with honorable members of the Navy Board right after this meeting, to discuss sending a token force of one thousand men ahead as soon as possible. Tomorrow I will meet with the Treaty Commission and other relevant bodies to finalize more ambitious plans. Noble 700, I ask that this meeting be adjourned until tomorrow evening, when I shall present a detailed proposal for Their Honors’ approval.”
Irona so ruled, but with a heavy heart. Podakan had just been given a free hand to exterminate the hill folk of Muhavura. The rest of the Chosen had no idea how far he was likely to go.
As usual, her son astonished her. First, Podakan asked for Borawli as his deputy, which surprised everyone, especially Borawli. Next, having gathered a force of twenty thousand and marched them into the territory of the tribe closest to Severny, he shed no blood at all. At a parley, he demanded only release of all captives, return of all stolen goods, and a penalty of one hundred juvenile slaves. Hardly able to believe their good fortune, the tribal leaders complied, turning over some of their loot, many of their prisoners, and one hundred superfluous children seized from their poorest families. They also delivered their previous chief in chains, claiming that he had incited their recent, regrettable, homicidal frenzy.
Podakan released the chief, confident that he
was now disgraced and harmless, but took his two sons hostage, just in case. He then spent the summer exploring Muhavura in force, collecting adolescent hostages from all the prominent chiefs. He returned to Benign with forty-nine of them.
Now his choice of deputy made some sense. In a speech to the Seventy, Borawli drew on his experience with the Education Board to explain how these children could be educated in imperial ways at almost no expense to the state. When they were eventually sent home in exchange for others, as had been agreed, they would leaven their people’s barbarism with some Benesh civilization.
Any new idea met with opposition among the Chosen. Where were they to be boarded and who would pay for their food? Had he any idea how much fifty adolescents would eat? Podakan replied that there was plenty of unused space in his consort’s palace, and he hoped the boys could be put out to work part-time as soon as they understood some simple Benesh. Grumbling on principle, the honorable Seventy gave their approval. Irona suppressed her doubts and voted with the majority.
The Year 737
In early fall, the Seven were informed that First Mallahle had taken to his bed. Ledacos came calling on Irona next morning as she was eating breakfast. She poured him a beaker of wine and Source Water while Veer tactfully withdrew, closing the door.
For a moment 692 sat and smiled conspiratorially. Irona waited, knowing why he had come and content to let him roll the first die.
“He’s been a good First, 700.”
“Yes, he has.” She smiled back. They were the two main power brokers. The last time they had disagreed on something, the Seventy had split narrowly in her favor, but sometimes Ledacos won the majority. Election of a First had uncertainties all its own.
“Just supposing we went head-to-head,” he said. “I’d win. You’re a woman and too young.”
“We’re both too young.” She was well aware that a stranger judging by looks alone would assume she was older than Ledacos. “Goddess knows who might get picked as a tiebreaker.”
He knew that too. “Yes, let’s settle it now.”
She knew that he was in the stronger position. Not in this election but in the one after this, they would butt heads. If whoever was chosen this time reigned for ten years, as Mallahle had, then Irona would be sixty-three, still too young, and Ledacos seventy-one, about right. The time after that she might be too old to be elected, or even too old to care.
“Can we agree on a candidate?” Ledacos said. “How about Suretamatai 683?”
“Your distinguished client and lapdog.”
He conceded the point with a shrug. “Makian 682, then?”
“I will fight to the death.”
Irona 700 was determined that the first female First must be Irona 700. Even if Makian could be elected, which was doubtful because she had no following of her own, the Seventy would never elect another woman to succeed her.
“Who’s your choice, then?” Ledacos said.
Irona had spent half the night thinking about that. The younger the better, from her point of view, to put off the next election as long as possible and give her time to age. Ledacos would prefer someone older for the opposite reason. If they disagreed, his elderly candidate was more likely to carry the day than her younger one, whoever they were.
She said, “Ranau 674.”
Understandably, Ledacos was taken aback. “He’s only five years younger than Mallahle.”
“He’s popular and competent. Who says a First must reign for ten years?”
“The goddess, I suppose.” Ledacos offered a hand to shake. “Ranau it is, then. You want to tell him, or shall I?”
Later that year, Irona was chatting in the Scandal Market with Haruna 710. The air was cool and the grass wet, but a week ago there had been snow there. Spring was on the way, and that meant sailing weather could not be far behind. The evening’s agenda included several seasonal items. Suddenly Podakan 725 was there also, so intent on business that he barely nodded a greeting.
“Item Four,” he said. “Election of a governor for Vult. Who gets your vote, Dam?”
“Isn’t it Lascar 730’s turn?” Irona was not then a Seven, but she still had her clients, and Vult had not come up at their strategy meeting for this agenda because it was routine now. Ever since the governor’s term had been reduced from two years to one—on her recommendation—a stint on the edge of the Dread Lands had become a rite of passage for Chosen in their midtwenties.
There had been exceptions, of course. No one had suggested trusting Puchuldiza alone for a year with a hundred men. And Podakan had always escaped, because he had been holding more important offices. Umboi 729 was the present governor, no doubt counting the days until he would be relieved.
“I think it’s mine, Dam,” he said. “No reason why I should be excluded.”
Great Goddess! Needing time to think, Irona looked to Haruna, who had served her term years ago. “He never ceases to amaze me. Have you ever heard of anyone volunteering for Vult?”
What in the world was he was up to this time?
“I expect all those young barbarians boarding in his house have driven him insane.” Haruna’s humor often exceeded her tact.
“Quite right,” Podakan said. “They were a very bad idea and this is probably another, but Lascar is five years my junior, and every Chosen for twenty-five years has taken a turn at Vult latrine duty. Besides, Koriana has just whelped and I can’t breed her again for months.”
Haruna flushed scarlet. “Then I will certainly vote for you. I just wish it were a five-year term.”
“That’s the spirit! You should bark more often. Dam, will you nominate me, please?”
“If you wish. Koriana certainly deserves a rest.” She had produced three girls and three boys in ten years.
Podakan glanced around the garden. “Good. I’ll go and butter up some of the other old relics.” He strode away.
Looking quite comically shocked, Haruna said, “There are times, my dear …”
“He’s always like that with me when we’re alone. You got caught in the splash, that’s all.” But what was he up to?
Irona had still not made up her mind about that when Item Four was called. She raised her hand—she did not stand in the Assembly these days—and nominated Podakan 725. As usual, there was no other nomination.
Within a week he was gone, sailing off to visit his birthplace.
The Year 738
With Podakan away, Irona made more of an effort to befriend Koriana, but with little success. The former princess declined all social invitations and refused to let her children out of the house. Admittedly it was a huge house, whose grounds were spacious by city standards, and she had dozens of servants. She allowed Irona to visit, but made her disapproval obvious. Irona was surprised to learn from a chance remark that the young hostages from Muhavura were no longer billeted in the attic. She had almost forgotten those hostages.
Next day, she requested—which meant commanded—Borawli 727 to drop by her office in the palace, “at his convenience.” She might be only a Six at present, but she was still Irona 700, so he came at once. She bade him be seated, offered wine, tried to put him at ease. He didn’t look at ease, which was a bad sign when she hadn’t yet said why she wanted to see him.
“Hostages?” she said. “I remember the Seventy approving the idea back in 734, but I cannot recall any further discussion. No reports, even.”
Borawli squirmed. “That might be because the program was not funded by the Treasury. I left it up to your noble son and … he … probably … forgot?”
In other words, the overpowering Podakan had bullied the low-key scholar into keeping his mouth shut about something. The lowness of his key might explain why the scholar had been chosen as deputy leader for the Muhavura mission in the first place. Irona mentally drew her sword.
“Tell me how it went, then. In your own word
s.”
“Um … Quite well to start with. We found some freedmen to teach the kids the language, and … various things. Took them to see a public flogging so they would behave themselves.” He brightened. “Which they did! You realize that they committed no crimes at all? Not one! Fifty adolescent barbarians loose in Benign and there was not a single complaint about them the whole time they were here.”
“I hadn’t noticed that. I’m surprised you didn’t brag about it to the Seventy.”
He hesitated. “Well … when we sent them home, we couldn’t be sure we had really done any good.”
“Just when did you send them home?”
“In 736, as we had promised. And we got another fifty or so in exchange, but they weren’t the same.”
“Not the same in what way?” She wondered if the sight of a public flogging might loosen his tongue, but of course no Chosen ever got flogged.
His forehead glistened. “They weren’t sons or grandsons of elders, like the first lot had been. The chiefs fobbed us off with commoners’ spawn. The tribes are very hierarchal in their—”
“Quite. So they were sent back?”
“No. We treated them the same way. But when your honorable son left for Vult, he sent them home and told them not to send any replacements. He didn’t want to leave his wife and children at the mercy of young savages.”
How thoughtful of him.
“Why were the Seventy told nothing of this?”
Tendons in Borawli’s neck were taut as ship’s rigging, and his eyes looked anywhere except at Irona’s.
“If I may say so, ma’am … Your noble son was rather disappointed with the, um, lack of … He did promise … He told me he was writing … It was up to him.”
Irona had to be content with that. Certainly Podakan had never been willing to admit mistakes, so he would have kept quiet if his hostage idea had been a failure. And possibly if it had been a success, depending on what it had really been meant to accomplish.
