Isolate

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “The Imperador announced it last week,” said the second. “Where were you?” She turned to Obreduur. “Can you get us better pay, sir?”

  “The best we’ve been able to do is to get women paid as much for the same job as men.”

  “That won’t help much here. The owner doesn’t hire shopboys.”

  “You’re really a councilor?” asked the first shopgirl.

  “I am.”

  “What’s it like? Have you ever met the Imperador? What’s he like?”

  “We spend a lot of time trying to help people and working out how to spend government funds in the way that will do the most good. I only met the Imperador briefly. He was very pleasant, but concentrated on the matter at hand.”

  “Is he tall?”

  “I’m about the same height as he is.”

  “Would you like to buy a dress for someone?” asked the first shopgirl.

  “I’d never buy my wife a dress if she weren’t here, but thank you. You’ve been very kind, and I hope you’ll both vote in the election.”

  Obreduur led the way from the shop.

  The third stop was at a bookstore. An older man stood behind the counter and looked curiously at Obreduur as he entered, then shook his head in what might have been disbelief, before saying, “You aren’t Councilor Obreduur, are you?”

  “I’m afraid I am.” Obreduur smiled wryly.

  “My brother talks about you all the time. You’re the acting Premier now, aren’t you?”

  “Just until the election, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll both vote for you, and so will our wives. Our cousin’s a woodcrafter for Guldoran Ironway. He told us about how you stopped them from using yellow cedar. Just like all corporacions. It’s all about marks…”

  Some minutes later Obreduur gracefully extracted himself from the bookstore, and the three turned and walked back toward the hotel to meet Herrardo.

  “I’d hoped to stop in a few more shops,” Obreduur said. “It’s been a while since I’ve actually walked the streets here, but the first two stops might help.”

  Dekkard could see that. The man in the bookstore would have voted for Obreduur anyway, while the most of the others hadn’t even known who he was.

  The blue Gresynt was waiting at the hotel.

  “Out gathering some more voters?” asked Herrardo as the three entered the steamer.

  “Trying,” replied Obreduur cheerfully. “We can always use more votes.”

  Herrardo swung the steamer onto Copper Avenue, then turned south on Second Street in the direction of the ironway station. In minutes, the Gresynt approached the Wholesale Produce Center of Oersynt, an oversized square building that filled an entire block, albeit a small block, less than three blocks from the ironway station. Herrardo slowed the steamer short of the loading docks and turned in to a parking space marked FOR OFFICIAL BUSINESS.

  Obreduur was definitely an official, but Dekkard doubted that campaigning came under the definition of official business. He also doubted that anyone would raise the issue.

  The four got out, with Herrardo leading the way up a set of steps constructed of heavy timbers and grayed by years of soot, beside the last loading dock, to a door, which he opened. At the end of a short hallway was another door, which led to an enormous hall, a good twenty yards wide, and close to seventy long.

  “This hall is for the smaller growers,” said Herrardo, clearly talking to Dekkard and Avraal. “The center hall is for the larger growers, and the far hall is for flowers. You’ll have to keep moving if you want to meet everyone you can in this hall in the four bells before you need to go back to the hotel and change for dinner.”

  Obreduur walked to the nearest stall, almost empty, except for a few bushels of potatoes.

  The single man there turned. “Not much left, sir.”

  “I’m not here for the potatoes,” replied Obreduur. “I came late because I didn’t want to get in the way of customers. I’m Councilor Axel Obreduur.” He paused for an instant to see if the grower showed any sign of recognition, then went on. “I’m running for reelection in the election a week from Findi. I’d like to know what you’d like or need from government, and also to ask if you’d consider voting for me.”

  The grower shook his head. “The only thing I want from government is not to increase my taxes and to keep the rivers from flooding my lands.”

  “Are you near the Mal or the Azulete?”

  “South bank of the Mal, ten milles east of the ironway bridge.”

  “So you’re concerned about the Eshhaart levee?”

  For the first time, Dekkard could see that the grower looked interested.

  “Who wouldn’t be? It’s nearly fifty years old.”

  “You’ve got yellow norths there. They usually don’t grow in bottomland. Or am I missing something?”

  Dekkard took a quick look at what was in the nearest bushel basket. They just looked like potatoes to him.

  The grower grinned. “Those are from the hillside terraces. I sold off all the Chuiven whites first thing this morning. How’d you know that?”

  “I started out as a stevedore in Whulte years ago. I saw a lot of potatoes…”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Obreduur … Axel Obreduur.”

  “I’ll think about it, Councilor. If you’ll excuse me…”

  “You need to take care of things. I appreciate your talking to me.”

  Obreduur moved away past a now-empty stall to a smaller one, in which mushrooms were displayed, in far smaller baskets. Dekkard recognized the giant browns, and the stringy orientals, and the white button mushrooms, but not the light brown stringy ones.

  “You a restaurateur looking for the best for your tables? I’ve got the very best,” said the wiry man in brown trousers and shirt.

  “They look superb,” replied Obreduur. “I wish I were shopping for a restaurant. For this variety and quality, you must spend a long time at it.”

  “The family’s been at it some forty years…” The man paused. “What’s your interest?”

  “In a way … keeping you and your family in business. I’m Axel Obreduur—”

  “The councilor … the one who’s the acting Premier?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are you doing here in the produce market?”

  Obreduur grinned. “Trying to ask you to vote for me in the upcoming election. The one a week from Findi.”

  “You’re really him?” The man’s eyes strayed to Dekkard, then lingered on Avraal, before he looked back to Obreduur. “You must be. They’re security, aren’t they?”

  “Unhappily, they’re necessary.”

  “Why did you come here? You’re not a Landor.”

  “No … but I started out as a stevedore, and I know more than I’d like to about working hard. I try to meet people I haven’t met before. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I never thought…”

  Obreduur smiled again, quietly. “Councilors are people, too. Some worked with their hands, some worked as legalists, or a teachers, or machinists … or for corporacions. You need to see us, and we need to see you. That’s why I’m here … and, of course, to try to get you to consider voting for me.”

  “It’s good to meet you, sir … but I’ll have to think about it.”

  “That’s all I can expect, but whatever you decide … please vote.”

  Obreduur moved to the next stall …

  Dekkard could tell that it was going to be a long afternoon … and that, incidentally, he would learn bits and pieces of information he’d never heard before.

  In fact, it did take almost four bells for Obreduur to walk through just the hall serving the smaller growers. He talked at least briefly to everyone at the more than sixty stalls that he visited … well over a hundred people, by Dekkard’s count, since there were often more people than a single grower at many of the stalls.

  Dekkard was more than glad
to sit down in the Gresynt for the ride back to the Hotel Cosmopolitano.

  “Did you learn anything this afternoon?” asked Obreduur cheerfully.

  “I knew that campaigning was hard work,” replied Dekkard, “but I learned more about produce than I ever thought I would.” He turned to look at Avraal. “I imagine you knew some of that.”

  “Some. You have to remember that I grew up on one holding, and we just visited the equivalent of more than fifty.”

  “When we get back to the hotel,” Obreduur said, “you’ll have a little less than a bell to change before we leave for Fangio’s.”

  “Yes, sir. Who might be at the dinner?” Dekkard knew where Fangio’s was, because he’d heard, on and off growing up, of the restaurant as expensive and prestigious, but the itinerary hadn’t mentioned the attendees by name, just that it was a campaign dinner for local business owners and their spouses, presumably, Dekkard surmised, for businesses larger than shops and smaller than corporacions who had donated to the Craft Party, very generously, since contributions to candidates were absolutely forbidden.

  “Herrardo?” asked Obreduur.

  “Offhand, I can’t remember the entire guest list but it’s only ten couples, plus you, Avraal, Steffan, and me. I know Leon Frazeer, Heinrich Sommes, Alfredo Andolini, Maercel DeHines, Marshal Austen, Lucien Garcia, and Gloriana Saffel are coming, all with their spouses. I should remember the other three…”

  Just as Herrardo pulled up in the entry circle of the hotel, he said, “Elizabetta Higgbee, Quentin Harrowes, and Sammis Lerron, also with spouses, except Harrowes. His fiancée will be with him.”

  “Fiancée?” asked Obreduur.

  “His wife died suddenly in Springfirst. She’d been ill for years, tubercular degeneration.”

  He certainly didn’t waste any time. Dekkard raised his eyebrows and looked at Avraal, who returned his unasked question with a cynical smile.

  “I’ll see you here at a third before sixth bell,” said Herrardo as the three exited the Gresynt.

  Once they were inside the hotel and headed up to their rooms, Dekkard asked, “The dinner’s for the larger contributors to the party?”

  “For some of the largest contributors, especially Leon Frazeer and Quentin Harrowes. Gloriana Saffel’s also important, because she owns the largest clerical training and employment service in Oersynt. Her trainees provide clerical services for the local party. Some of the greatest support isn’t always marks.” Obreduur stopped before his door. “We’ll meet here just before we go down to meet Herrardo.”

  Dekkard made sure Avraal was in her room before entering his, then getting himself ready with one of the clean gray suits, a white shirt, and the black cravat Avraal had given him. He did choose the personal truncheon, as well as his knives.

  He was the first back out in the corridor, followed by Avraal, who wore a gray suit as well, except with trousers rather than a skirt, clearly emphasizing she was there for security. Obreduur wore a black suit, with the red cravat commonly worn by councilors.

  At almost precisely a third before sixth bell, Herrardo, attired in a fashion similar to Obreduur, except his cravat was a deep green, drove the Gresynt away from the Hotel Cosmopolitano. The drive to Fangio’s was short, only about half the distance between the hotel and Geddes Square. When they arrived, Herrardo turned the Gresynt over to the restaurant’s parking valet, and entered the building with Obreduur, followed by Avraal and Dekkard.

  The maître d’hôtel immediately appeared, in deep blue livery with pale blue piping. “The private dining room is ready, Councilor, Sr. Herrardo.” He led them down a side corridor parallel to the front of the building, then stepped through the open double doors.

  While Herrardo and Obreduur talked with him, Dekkard and Avraal studied the chamber, since they would be screening those who attended as they entered and were greeted by Herrardo.

  The left side of the chamber was arranged as for a reception, with sideboards and servers, while the right side was arranged with tables set up in a U shape. Dekkard judged that there were four long tables forming the U, two forming the base, in the middle of which Obreduur would be seated, and one for each side of the U, doubtless with Dekkard at the end of one side and Avraal at the end of the other.

  To Dekkard’s eye, the décor was slightly overaccented old Imperial, with dark wood paneling and pale blue hangings trimmed with gold. The linens on the U-shaped tables were also pale blue, and the table napkins of a golden linen. Dekkard decided that those invited must have been very generous contributors to the party.

  After a few minutes, the maître d’hôtel departed, and Herrardo joined Dekkard and Avraal at the doors while Obreduur went to one of the sideboards and obtained a beaker of lager, most likely Riverfall.

  Dekkard could understand that. Once the guests arrived, he’d have little time to drink, at least until dinner was served, and even then he wouldn’t eat or drink that much.

  Before that long, a couple entered Fangio’s and immediately turned toward the private dining room. The raven-haired woman looked to be ten years younger than the slightly paunchy and graying man.

  “Lucien Garcia and his wife Somera,” murmured Herrardo, who waited for the two to reach the doors before saying, “Lucien, Somera, we’re so glad you could come this evening.”

  “Somera wasn’t about to turn down a dinner here when you’re paying, Jareld.”

  Somera smiled and said, “We both know he’s the one who thinks that way.”

  “We’re just glad you’re both here. This evening, the councilor has two of his aides here, Avraal Ysella, who handles land and women’s issues, and Steffan Dekkard, who deals with artisan matters and tariffs.”

  “And both clearly deal with security,” replied Sr. Garcia.

  “Only when necessary,” said Avraal, “and that’s very unlikely this evening.”

  “We’re glad to hear it,” replied Lucien Garcia. “Oh … there’s the councilor. We should go talk to him before he’s surrounded.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Somera pleasantly before continuing with her husband.

  Dekkard was very well aware that Somera Garcia’s eyes had lingered on him far more than for casual interest. He glanced to Avraal and raised his eyebrows, nodding slightly in the direction of the Garcias.

  Avraal remained perfectly calm as she said quietly, “Just passing casual lust. That’s all.”

  Beside her, Herrardo smothered a laugh, momentarily turning his head away from the next two approaching couples. Then, after regaining his composure, he said, “Sammis and Adelye Lerron, then Heinrich and Berthe Sommes.”

  After those two couples entered, Herrardo said quietly, “Gloriana Saffel and Titus Steffans. They’re married. She kept her name because of the business.”

  Business? Then Dekkard recalled that she trained and placed clericals. As she neared, he found himself surprised, because he’d expected either a large or flamboyant personage, but she wore a tailored black silk jacket, with matching trousers, and an off-white silk blouse. Titus Steffans had a thin black brush mustache and wore a dark green suit with a silver shirt and a silk cravat that matched the color of his suit.

  After the introductions, Gloriana looked to Avril, then Dekkard, before saying, “I wondered who was good enough to save him. Thank you both. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk.” She smiled pleasantly, then headed directly toward Obreduur. Her husband followed, a half step behind.

  For the next sixth, couples appeared and then entered the chamber.

  At almost half past sixth bell, Herrardo said quietly, “Everyone is here except Quentin Harrowes.” He glanced toward the restaurant entrance and added, “I take that back. Here comes Quentin with Mellorie Maaske.”

  Dekkard studied the pair as they approached. Harrowes was a big man, handsome and taller than Dekkard, and just slightly broader, but with only a hint of extra weight, thick silver hair, and an easy smile that he flashed at Herrardo. Mellorie Maaske reminded Dekkard of a vole, small
and alert, with brown hair, brown eyes, and faultless pale brown skin. She had to be at least twenty years younger than Harrowes, but when she glanced sideways at him, her expression was close to that of pure adoration.

  Once the couple entered and headed toward Obreduur, Herrardo closed the double doors and smiled wryly. “Time to mix and mingle.”

  Avraal glanced at Dekkard. “We’ll compare notes later.”

  He nodded. “It should be interesting.” As he made his way toward one of the sideboards, he just hoped it wasn’t too interesting. After obtaining a beaker of Riverfall, he took several steps away from the sideboard and then took a healthy swallow.

  “I heard that you’re very highly rated in martial arts,” said a sultry voice to his right.

  Dekkard didn’t have to turn to know who it had to be, but he smiled as he moved to face Somera Garcia. With her was another woman, and it took him an instant to recall that she was Andrea Andolini. “That was years ago, and the real world doesn’t care much about academic prowess or scholastic athletics … as I’m sure both of you ladies know.”

  “I’m very sure that such prowess has proved … useful,” replied Somera.

  “That, and having a very good partner,” said Dekkard. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. All I know about either of you are your names, and that you’re presumably from the Oersynt area, and that the Council thinks highly of you.”

  “Or of the contributions made by my husband,” suggested Somera, who then nodded toward Andrea Andolini, “and those made from your inheritance by your husband.”

  “Actually, I had to … persuade him to contribute. He’s still aspiring to be a Landor.” Andrea smiled pleasantly. “You’re a bit too handsome and muscular to be one of the councilor’s river rats. Where did you come from?”

  “An artisan background here in Oersynt. My father’s a decorative-plaster artisan, and my mother’s a portraitist.”

  “And she’s very good,” interjected another voice, which belonged to a plain-faced woman with a smile that radiated warmth. “She did my niece’s portrait last year.” She glanced at the thin man who had just joined her. “Even Maercel thought it was excellent, and he doesn’t even like art.”