Ysella smiled. “Steffan … I know … but I do understand.”
“Thank you.”
After quickly finishing his breakfast, Dekkard rose and walked to the garage, where he opened the garage doors, then topped off the water and kerosene in both steamers before lighting off their boilers. Even with the request from Ritten Obreduur, Dekkard had the councilor’s steamer under the front portico ready to go at a half before second bell, a sixth earlier than Obreduur had requested. He’d even had time to clean the few mud splatters from the glass of the front windscreen and the side windows. He rolled down the front windows on each side of the steamer a precise three digits, just enough that there would be a slight breeze in the rear on the drive to the Council Office Building.
Then he took another look at the pale green sky over the city, a sky with just a hint of haze, although that would likely thicken over the course of the day, but at least there was no sign of rain.
Ysella accompanied Obreduur down the granite steps from the small mansion that most of the Sixty-Six would have considered modest, but then circled around to the other side, because her job was to sit up front where she could sense trouble more effectively. As a security aide, while on duty she was unofficially exempted from the customary headscarf worn by either the few professional women or the wives or daughters of the upper classes, either commercial or landed.
Dekkard waited for the councilor to seat himself, then released the brakes and pressed the throttle pedal, and the Gresynt accelerated smoothly and quietly as Dekkard guided it out from under the portico and along the concrete drive leading to the gates. Once on Altarama Drive, heading west, Dekkard checked the rearview mirrors to see whether anyone was following the steamer, then looked farther ahead, but he saw only a smaller Realto steamer turning in to the drive of a mansion easily thrice the size of the councilor’s dwelling. That mansion belonged to the chairman of Transoceanic Shipping, or so Ysella had told Dekkard.
Dekkard and Ysella had been especially wary ever since the attack nearly a month earlier, although there had been no other attempts and no obvious signs that Obreduur was being watched or shadowed, but all that meant was that no one had gotten close enough for Ysella to sense the range of feelings possessed by an attacker—or the total lack of emotional radiation from an isolate.
As he continued driving, Dekkard wondered who the councilor might be meeting or receiving, or what else he might be doing, because the Council was only in pro forma session pending the Imperador’s decision on whether to remove Premier Grieg or to dissolve the Council … or possibly, to do neither in the wake of the Kraffeist Affair and the underlying peculation, the extent of which remained to be discovered. As if it ever will be.
Some four blocks later, he turned off Altarama and onto Imperial Boulevard, easing the Gresynt in behind a limousine with a poorly adjusted burner, although most wouldn’t have noticed the thin gray wisps of smoke. At least the smoke wasn’t black and odoriferous, unlike what poured from the chimneys of the large manufactories around cities like Oersynt, Kathaar, or Uldwyrk.
Imperial Boulevard was the smooth, asphalt-paved main thoroughfare that ran north from the harbor to the Imperador’s Palace, and consisted of two sets of double lanes divided by a median featuring raised marble-walled gardens flanked by soft-needled Folknor pines. Marble sidewalks not only stretched between the center gardens and the trees, but also flanked the outer sides of the roadway. By decree, later ratified into law by the Council, all structures located within a block of the boulevard had to be built of stone and roofed either with tile or slate and could not exceed five stories, although few were more than three. Dekkard had to admit, even in his more cynical moods, that Imperial Boulevard was impressive, with all the hotels and business buildings, and the view of the Palace of the Imperador was especially striking.
“Steffan,” said the councilor, “we’re early enough that you don’t have to drop us off. Just park the steamer, and we’ll walk.”
“Yes, sir.”
After driving a mille and a half, he turned off the boulevard onto Council Avenue, the last major cross street before the Way of Gold, which not only split around the circular Square of Heroes, but ran along the south edge of the Palace grounds. On the north side of the square was the formal entrance to the Palace. Dekkard drove another half mille, before slowing the steamer as they approached the guard post at the entrance to the covered parking area for councilors.
After visually inspecting the steamer, the emblem welded to the front bumper, and those inside, the guard, dressed in the standard pale green uniform, waved the Gresynt through the open gate. After parking the steamer, Dekkard shut off the burner, and he and Ysella escorted Obreduur from the garage across the drive to the Council Office Building and up to the office.
All councilors’ offices were identical, consisting of three connected chambers: the councilor’s private inner office, with a small attached bathroom containing little more than a sink, toilet, and closet; the anteroom, holding a receptionist and her desk, with chairs and a leather-upholstered backed bench for those very few waiting to see the councilor and two table desks at one end for junior assistants, usually for staffers who also provided security in some form or another; and a moderately large staff office for the councilor’s senior legal or political staffers and several clerks with typewriters and their mechanical brass calculators.
Obreduur smiled warmly to the receptionist who also served as his personal secretary just before he walked past her desk and toward his office. “Good morning, Karola.”
“Good morning, Councilor.”
By the time her words were out, Obreduur was closing the inner office door.
“You’re early,” said Karola.
“He wanted to be early,” replied Dekkard. “The boulevard wasn’t crowded.”
“I was afraid you’d be here first. They had trouble with the omnibus, something about a leak in the flash boiler. Anna and Margrit kept telling me we’d make it, but I wasn’t sure.”
“What about Ivann and the others?” asked Dekkard.
“All the Crafter legalists are meeting with the Craft Party’s head legalist. Ivann said he didn’t know what it’s all about. Both Ivann and Svard went. Felix is in the office. I put the latest petitions and letters on your desk.”
Dekkard nodded. “Thank you.” As he walked over to his desk, and the stack of petitions, and a handful of letters, awaiting him, he pondered the reason for the meeting of all the Crafter legalists. Had the Premier asked the Justiciary Ministry to indict someone else associated with Minister Kraffeist … or had Grieg asked for one or all of the indictments to be withdrawn? But if it involved Kraffeist as Minister of Public Resources, why weren’t the commercial aides like Felix invited?
Shaking his head at what he didn’t know, Dekkard sat down at his table desk and looked at the stack of paper, all presumably from the Oersynt-Malek district from which Obreduur had been elected.
Dekkard’s other duties, when he was not protecting Obreduur, consisted mainly of reading petitions or correspondence dealing largely with artisan and specific craft-related matters and replying graciously to those who had simple inquiries, flagging and filing those that were insulting or threatening, while drafting a polite response saying nothing, and referring those requiring detailed expertise to Ivann Macri for his determination as to which of the three senior staffers should handle each. Ysella had similar duties for all other petitions or correspondence.
Both, but particularly Ysella, also covertly screened any visitors to the councilor.
Less than a third of a bell passed before the door began to open and Ysella said quietly to Dekkard, “An empie and isolate are coming with another person.”
That person had to be a councilor. Dekkard immediately stood, the fingers of his left hand brushing the hilt of his gladius. He didn’t recognize the councilor. “Welcome, sir.”
“Councilor Saarh to see Councilor Obreduur,” offered the security isolate, wh
om Dekkard vaguely recalled seeing before.
The auburn-haired councilor, who didn’t appear to be more than a handful of years older than Dekkard, stepped into the office, ignoring Dekkard and looking directly at Karola.
Having already stood, she said, “He’s expecting you, sir.” She rapped gently on the door to the inner office. “Councilor Saarh, sir.” Then she opened that door.
Saarh looked to the thin young man to his right, who nodded, indicating that he was the empie, although Dekkard would have guessed that, since the other aide in gray was more muscular and wore a sheathed gladius with a scabbard that looked considerably more worn than did Dekkard’s, while the empie only wore a personal truncheon similar to the one Ysella wore.
At that moment, the inner door opened, and Obreduur stood there, smiling pleasantly. “I’m glad we have this chance to get together.” He stepped back, leaving the door open.
Saarh returned the smile. “So am I.”
In moments, the two councilors were alone in the inner office, the door closed.
Ysella looked to the other empie. “It’s good to see you again, Micah. I didn’t think you could stay away from the Council.”
Micah offered a sardonic smile. “It’s not as though I had much choice. Most commercial firms are leery of empies who’ve worked for councilors. We’re not as mobile as chills are.”
Especially male empaths. Dekkard knew that, but he’d never understood the reason.
Ysella half turned. “Steffan, this is Micah Eljaan.”
Eljann’s eyes flicked to Dekkard.
“Steffan Dekkard.” Dekkard knew that the other isolate had to be at least ten years older and that he’d seen him with Councilor Freust, but he had no idea what his name was, since security staff were seldom introduced, except by other security types when councilors weren’t present, and that didn’t occur often, something Dekkard wouldn’t have guessed before he joined Obreduur’s staff.
“Have you met Malcolm? Malcolm Maarkham?” Micah nodded to the older isolate.
“We’ve crossed paths, but that’s all.”
“Barely that,” affirmed Maarkham blandly. “You’re from Oersynt, aren’t you, before the Military Institute and security training?”
Dekkard nodded. “And you? You were with Councilor Freust for some time.” That was an estimation barely more than a guess.
“Nine years. I grew up in Uldwyrk. Security training through the district patroller academy.”
When no one else spoke immediately, Eljaan turned to Dekkard. “Might I ask how you came to work for Councilor Dekkard?”
“He was looking for a security aide. I was recommended by both the Institute and the Artisans Guild of Oersynt. He interviewed me and eventually hired me.” What Dekkard wasn’t about to mention was that Obreduur had personally observed how Dekkard had handled all the security tests and physical challenges required, known as the “chill killers.”
“Artisans in your family, then?” asked Maarkham.
“Both my parents.”
“That makes sense for a Craft councilor,” said Eljaan cheerfully.
Dekkard caught the hint of a wince on Ysella’s face, but doubted anyone else did.
“Don’t let us keep you from what you have to do,” said Maarkham firmly, looking at Eljaan.
“No, please don’t,” added Eljaan, his voice still cheerful.
“Thank you,” replied Ysella quickly. “We do have petitions to go through.”
“I’m glad I don’t,” replied Maarkham dryly, seating himself on the bench in the front of the chamber.
Eljaan sat beside him.
Dekkard reseated himself, picked up the top petition in the stack, and began to read about how the town of Elsevier had hired non-guild stonemasons to rebuild the town hall in violation of the national law that required all large construction projects to use guild workers. Macri or Roostof have to handle this. Dekkard suspected he knew the answer, which was that rebuilding work below a certain monetary value was exempt from that law, but Macri would definitely prefer that Dekkard not attempt a legal explanation.
Less than a sixth of a bell passed before the door to the councilor’s private office opened, and Councilor Saarh emerged, smiling pleasantly, followed by Obreduur, who halted in the doorway as Saarh walked toward the outer door, where Maarkham and Eljaan stood waiting.
Eljaan opened the door. Maarkham stepped out first, followed by Saarh. The moment the outer door closed behind Eljaan, Obreduur stepped back into his inner office, closing the door.
Ysella looked to Karola. “What can you tell us about Councilor Saarh?”
“Councilor Obreduur told me that he was chosen last week as Councilor Freust’s replacement by the Landor Party leadership. He’s from Khuld.” Karola lowered her voice. “He’s married to Councilor Freust’s youngest daughter. That’s all I know.”
“Did the councilor mention anything about Freust’s death?”
“No, he didn’t.”
Ysella nodded. “Thank you.”
Several moments later, after Obreduur summoned Karola, Dekkard looked to Ysella. “What am I missing about Freust?”
“I don’t think Freust’s death was … natural.”
“Because of the timing of his death … or because of the emp attack on the councilor right after that?”
“Both.”
“Do you know if Freust was trying to build a coalition against the Commercers? Based on the agricultural-tariff reform bill?”
“Coalitions based on a single issue don’t work in the Council. Not for long, anyway. Obreduur might have been exploring a longer-term alliance with the Landors, but Freust was likely the only one who could have brokered it to his party, and one of the few Landors Craft councilors would trust.” She shrugged. “Now we’ll never know.”
Then, as Karola stepped out of Obreduur’s office, Ysella picked up a petition and began to read.
While any party could replace a councilor who died with another party member, Dekkard wondered what had determined the Landor Party to pick Saarh. Because the seat would fall to the Crafters or Commercers in the next election? Because Saarh couldn’t afford to buck the Landor leadership? To pay some political debt? Or something else entirely? But then, Guldoran law didn’t require a councilor to be from a district prior to an election, only that he maintain “a presence” in the district thereafter, although the majority of candidates running for a councilor’s seat usually were long-term residents of the district or were from some place very close.
Shaking his head, Dekkard went back to reading and sorting petitions.
Macri and Roostof returned to the office a sixth after the third morning bell.
“How was the meeting?” asked Ysella cheerfully.
“Intriguing, but boring after the first sixth.” The thin-faced and angular Macri grinned.
“Are the other parties having meetings for their legalists?” asked Dekkard.
Roostof shrugged.
“By now, Steffan,” replied Macri cheerfully, “you should know that the Landor councilors don’t trust legalists, especially their own, and the Commerce councilors provide extra rewards to their legalists not to talk to anyone.”
Dekkard didn’t try to point out that staff salaries were limited in various legal ways, because he’d already discovered that councilors had their ways of compensating staff that didn’t violate the letter of the law, particularly Commerce councilors, although Landor councilors were also known for such. Most Craft councilors had more limited resources, although all councilors received stipends for housing security aides.
Dekkard spent another bell sorting through the petitions and letters, then carried a small stack to Macri and a smaller pile to Raynaad, before sitting down to handwrite drafts to more mundane petitions and letters, drafts that Margrit would type up and then Macri would review before submitting them for the councilor’s signature … except for those on which Obreduur made corrections, but there were usually few of those. Obreduur
often just added a few lines in his own hand.
Just before noon, Obreduur appeared in the front office, and both security types stood.
After escorting him to the councilors’ private dining room, Dekkard and Ysella quickly ate in the staff cafeteria before escorting Obreduur back to the office.
No sooner had they returned to drafting responses than the door to the larger staff office opened and Felix Raynaad stepped out. The stocky brown-haired older economic and commercial aide looked toward the receptionist and personal secretary. “Karola, please let me know when the director of personnel from Guldoran Ironway arrives. The councilor wants me to be with him in the meeting.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
Dekkard looked at the other man. “Still the yellow cedar issue, Felix?”
“What else?” Raynaad shook his head before retreating.
While Dekkard knew few of the specifics, the general problem was that the Woodcrafters Guild had filed a legal objection to Guldoran Ironway’s use of yellow cedar as paneling for ironway coach cars when the ironway had shifted from black walnut earlier in the year. The guild opposed the use of yellow cedar, claiming that working with it caused consumption and breathing problems, and sometimes even incontinence, and suggested either returning to black walnut or using red cedar.
Guldoran contended that the yellow cedar was lighter, straight-grained, and stronger than the red cedar, which was not only heavier, but less regular in grain and coloration, and slightly more prone to splitting and that the red cedar was more expensive because it had to be transported by ironway some fifteen hundred milles from Jaykarh to Oersynt.
When the chimes at the top of the Council Hall tower rang out three bells, bells that had once been more necessary before the development of inexpensive spring-wound timepieces and small clocks, Dekkard looked to the main office door, but no one appeared. A sixth of a bell passed, then a third, before Raynaad peered into the front office and looked at Karola.
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