Mother of Lies

by Dave Duncan

  She stared menacingly around at fifteen faces—twelve men, three women. Werists had cleared the hall, herding the onlookers back to the line of pillars. Fabia caught the knowing eye of Berlice Spirno-Cavotti and they shrugged in mirror image. This sudden election was not a possibility they had discussed that afternoon. It was improvisation time.

  “Very well,” the Speaker said as Giordano subsided. “I testify to this company that the invariant custom of Celebre is to elect as doge a close adult male relative of the doge most recently deceased, to the farthest extent of first cousin twice removed, excepting that female relatives within such degree have been recognized on two occasions by the election of their husbands. It is likewise custom for a doge on his deathbed to recommend a candidate to the elders. Although that recommendation is officially given the weight of one vote, I know of only five occasions on which the council did not accept it as binding.

  “You have been previously advised that, on the first day of the Festival of New Oil, two honorable elders here present waited upon Doge Piero and prayed him to disclose the name of his preferred successor. As they will confirm, he responded by saying, ‘The Winner.’ Yes, lord Ritormo Nucci?”

  The peppery little man was on his feet. “What winner? Who decides who that is?”

  “You do. The council does. Or the council may ignore that report, as it pleases.” The Speaker squared her shoulders, as if glad to be done with the preliminaries. She smiled across at the row of spectators. “As president of this meeting, I call for any eligible relatives of our dearly mourned Doge Piero the Sixth now present to identify themselves and declare their willingness to serve.”

  Dantio tried to stand and failed. He raised his good hand. “May I speak seated, Speaker?” Even his voice trembled.

  “You may.”

  “Honorable elders, I am Dantio Celebre, eldest son of Doge Piero. I have only today returned from exile. I take myself out of contention on the grounds that I am a sworn Witness of Mayn and am therefore committed to observe the doings of the world, never to influence them.” He forced a pale smile. “My present discomfort was caused by an attempt to interfere in the execution of Stralg Hragson and may therefore be regarded as divine punishment.”

  The elders’ chuckles swelled into a round of applause. The mood of the council was visibly changing, as if they were just realizing that they did have a function after all, that Stralg would not be appointing a governor over them. Clouds were rolling back from the sun, revealing a world they had almost forgotten, Florengia without the Fist.

  “Question!” said a fat, oily-looking man. “Speaker, cannot a cultist be released from his vows under such circumstances?”

  Having discussed that during the afternoon planning session, Quarina knew Dantio’s views. “If lord Dantio were to apply to the Eldest of his order in Vigaelia, she might agree to release him. Do you wish to make such application, lord Dantio?”

  “I do not. I will not serve as doge.”

  “Then I declare you removed from consideration. You may present any other candidates present.” That, too, had been agreed beforehand.

  Dantio’s face was slick with sweat, but his voice was steadying.

  “I will first mention two who are not present. Our brother Benard, next in line to me, has remained in Vigaelia, having won office as consort of a great city, Kosord. As the honorable elders can see, breeding will tell!”

  Laughter, more applause. They were enjoying this new authority.

  “Our youngest sibling,” Dantio continued with tactful irrelevance, “lord Chies, is also not present.” That name provoked dark looks from the elders. “He unavoidably missed the turn-of-the-year ceremony. Consequently he is officially not yet an adult, therefore not eligible.”

  Smiles. That neat way out of the Chies problem had been arranged by the Mutineer, of course, but no one was mentioning him. Again Fabia caught Berlice’s eye. Marno, wherever he was, could not know about this precipitate election. He might be menzils away or putting out fires in the next street. He had not been present during the afternoon planning session; Fabia had not seen him since the previous evening. No one had known that Stralg would die, the city riot, the Speaker stampede the election.

  Dantio said, “I have one more brother to offer, my lords and ladies. Lord Orlad tonight slew the monster Stralg. He is not only the sole candidate eligible under the terms outlined by Speaker Quarina, he must be the Winner foreseen by our father. Stand up, Orlad.”

  Eyes still red, cheeks still damp, Orlad rose and scowled at the elders. They sprang to their feet also, clapping and cheering. He had won the prize he had wanted more than anything, and it must taste as bitter as alum. And now he was going to win the battle for the succession by default. Fabia was not ready to make her play.

  Speaker Quarina called for order. When the elders resumed their seats, she said, “Are you able and willing to serve as doge, lord Orlad?”

  “I am.”

  Two words he could manage. If they wanted a speech, he would flounder.

  And he was very young. This was the first time the justiciar had met Orlad, and the doubt showing on her face was reflected on many of the others’. Fabia could damn his candidacy just by pointing out that he had never even seen a great city before today, let alone lived in one. Instinct warned her that she would antagonize not only Orlad but the council as well. She would seem like a mere spoiler. And yet what else could she do? …

  “My lords,” the Speaker said, “you appear to have a choice of one candidate. Doge Piero has already cast his vote in favor of the Winner, and you may make up your own minds whether he had been granted foresight by the gods …” Marno’s mother was on her feet. “Councillor Spirno-Cavotti?”

  “Justiciar, I do not belittle Hero Orlad’s magnificent feat in killing the evil Fist tonight, but it is common knowledge that the tide of war has been turned and the utter defeat of the ice devils is only a matter of a season or two. There is another winner the honorable elders should—”

  The council erupted. “No! No!”

  The loudest was little Ritormo Nucci. “Traitor!” he screamed. “You supported Stralg. Every meeting for years you voted for whatever might please him! For years you and your jackals ran with the Vigaelian pigs and now you want to put your son on the throne? You should be evicted from the council, you and all the other snakes!”

  Dantio murmured, “Muddled zoology.” He had his eyes closed and should be rushed off to a warm sleeping rug.

  Roars of agreement and disagreement filled the air. Half the council wanted to expel the other half and vice versa. Beside Fabia, Oliva was laughing—nasty, tight, silent laughter all for herself, not shared, perhaps not even conscious. Politics were no longer her problem. Quarina was yelling for order and not being heard.

  “ELDERS!” Orlad’s superhuman roar would have silenced a thunderstorm. The hall rang with it. “Sit down!”

  They sat down, but he had not helped his cause.

  The Speaker smiled, thin-lipped. “Thank you, lord Orlad. It would appear, Berlice, that the council does not wish to consider your son as a candidate.”

  More angry growls and murmurs indicated that some of the council did.

  Berlice bounced up again. “That was not what I was going to propose! May I be heard?”

  “Very well. You have the floor.”

  “Elders, one child of Doge Piero has not been mentioned. May we hear from her?” Berlice sat down.

  The Speaker hesitated. She had not been forewarned of this. “Unless the council objects?” Most elders were frowning, but no voice was raised. “Lady Fabia?”

  Fabia lurched to her feet and faced the assembled glares as bravely as she could.

  “My lords and ladies, I am Fabia Celebre, fourth child and only daughter of the late doge. I am aware that women are not elected doge.” She glanced sideways. Orlad was still on his feet and his incandescent glare showed that he had guessed what was coming.

  “Continue!” Quarina sn
apped.

  Fabia waded deeper into the crocodile pool. “How could my father have known that my brother would fight Stralg tonight, let alone win such a battle? I ask the honorable elders to consider my fiancé as a candidate for the office of doge.” The only difficulty was that she did not have a fiancé. “Had this meeting been held after the funeral, as we—”

  Now the Speaker had guessed also, and was angry that she had been kept out of the secret. “Will you deign to tell the council the name of this fortunate betrothed, or have you yet to choose one?”

  “My lords, ladies, I have the honor to be engaged to marry lord Marno Cavotti, the Mutineer, the Liberator. He is a native of this city.”

  She was lying. They were not engaged. They had discussed the possibility on the journey from Veritano. They had agreed it had merit and they would think about it. They had expected to have more time. But fortune favors the swift—Marno had told her that.

  Everyone tried to speak at once, and in the confusion Fabia saw salvation over by the pillars. Civilians were fleeing in terror. A bodyguard of a dozen or so Werists was opening a way through the crowd, making room for the twisted, ogreish figure of Marno Cavotti, looming head and shoulders over even the largest of them. With the fires at his back, he was a troll’s nightmare. But a very welcome sight for Fabia. At last!

  Oliva screamed. “What is that?”

  “The Mutineer, Mother. Marno Cavotti.”

  Both Oliva and Berlice cried out in horror.

  Orlad muttered, “Trollop! So that was what you were up to in that chariot!”

  “Celebre needs him, Mama. Orlad, I am truly sorry. I was going to tell you, but there was no time.”

  Dantio muttered “Nicely done!” under his breath, but did not explain what he meant.

  “Slut!” Orlad sat down. “You would bed down with that?”

  “Mama?” Fabia said, but she was addressing the council. “Papa was in a coma for a long time. How much did he know about the war, I mean the last time he could understand the news?”

  Oliva tore her gaze away from the nightmare Mutineer. “What? Oh … I see what you mean. Yes, he knew Stralg was losing. I remember how he smiled when he heard about the victory at Reggoni Bridge.”

  “So he knew that Cavotti was going to be the winner? He must have known he was a native Celebrian. He knew nothing of his own children, let alone how Stralg would die here tonight.” Without a glance to see how Orlad was reacting, Fabia walked over to meet Marno. He was obviously exhausted, eyes sunk even deeper into their caverns, face and chlamys smeared with ash and blood. It was only a day since she had said goodbye to him at Montegola, and yet she had already forgotten just how huge he was. And, of course, the smell, a sort of heavy musk. It was not obnoxious. She had grown used to it in the chariot, and it was certainly male. She could live with it.

  His great paws closed around her shoulders and he bent to touch his lips to hers—she had not had a proper kiss from him yet. He folded one fist around her hand, but instead of going back to face the elders, he limped on past them, toward the catafalque. She felt like a child beside him.

  “What’s been happening?” he asked quietly.

  “I just announced our engagement. Two speeches later and they would have elected Orlad.”

  “I have been busy.” He halted within the ring of candelabra and bent his head in respect to the dead doge. “Who’s that?” he whispered. Obviously he did not mean Piero.

  “Waels. Stralg killed him, but he was distracted enough by it that Orlad could take the advantage. Waels and Orlad were very close.”

  “So Giunietta told me.” The bizarre, lopsided eyes stared hard at her. “You really want to go ahead with this?”

  “I do, certainly. You can have the coronet without me, if you prefer,” she admitted. “They shouted down your mother as a traitor, but they will give it to you if you demand it, rules or not.”

  “All I need do is whistle over a dozen warbeasts?” He sighed. There were unexpected depths to Marno Cavotti—as both Dantio and Giunietta had told her, and as she had discovered for herself on that hectic chariot journey. “Forget the coronet. Leave it out of the discussion. You would take a monster like me as your husband?”

  “Happily. But my dowry depends on the coronet.”

  His big mouth twisted in a rare smile. “So I don’t have to choose between you and it? You know the problems, my lady. It cannot be more than a political match.”

  “We can settle the details later.” Would all authority rest in the doge consort, or would he share it with the dogaressa of the blood?

  Marno was a clever man—he detected her duplicity and eyed her carefully, but time was running out. “I can’t believe you will willingly share an ogre’s bed, even to share his throne. Won’t you have nightmares?”

  “I’m tougher than I look.”

  He considered that reply for a moment, then shrugged. “Then let’s go and do it.”

  Still hand in hand, they went back to face the horseshoe of elders, who were sitting just as she had left them, as if petrified. Perhaps it had not occurred to them until now that Florengia had another bloodlord, one who might impose his will on them just as easily as Stralg would have done. Probably none of them except Berlice had ever seen the Mutineer before, and it had been ten years for her. This hulking grotesque was not the boy she had known, the son she had reared.

  He was ten years older than Orlad, a native of Celebre, a victorious general. He spoke the language and knew the city. His men controlled it as completely as his presence dominated the hall.

  He bowed first to Oliva, who glared at him. “My deepest sympathy on your loss, my lady. Celebre owes more to Piero than she has ever owed to any doge in her history. And it owes much to you, for piloting it this last year. I wish he could have lived to see our victory.” He held out a hand to Orlad. “Your foes are my foes.”

  Orlad, ignoring the hand: “That much we already agreed on.”

  “So we did.” The Mutineer turned and bowed to the elders.

  With admirable calm, Speaker Quarina said, “Will you report to the council on the condition of the city, lord Cavotti?”

  Marno uttered a deep bark of a laugh, the sound of a large and hungry carnivore. “Celebre will survive. Extrinsic casualties will probably not exceed two sixty. I have sent runners to neighboring towns appealing for more Healers. Our Hero losses were heavy, but not as bad as I feared. The ice devils are dead or fled, all but a few stragglers we are still rooting out. My men have secured the gates and are organizing teams to fight the fires—thank Weru for this rain! We have started digging mass graves for the enemy.” He glanced around at Oliva. “Your rose garden may need replanting, lady, but it will be well fertilized.”

  “You know why this council is gathered,” the Speaker said. “You are engaged to marry lady Fabia?”

  “I have that honor and pleasure.”

  She pursed thin lips. “The custom is that husbands are eligible, but there is no precedent for electing a fiancé.”

  Berlice began, “A quick wedding would—”

  “I object!” lord Nucci screamed. “An elder should not vote to elect her own son!” Rumbles of agreement and disagreement …

  “Elders!” Cavotti did not battleform his throat and lungs as Orlad had done, but his sepulchral roar was impressive enough. “It is true that my mother supported the Vigaelians. She had seen her husband skinned for encouraging me and she had other family members to defend. She knew that the Fist’s seers were watching her. It is also true, as only I and a very few others know, that for years she has worked tirelessly and fearlessly behind the scenes for the cause of liberty. If there are to be recriminations, then I can bring charges of collaboration against many of you. It will be my policy, if you elect me doge, to let bygones be bygones. No reprisals, no settling of scores. You have my word on that. Speaker, in the last two sixdays I have fought two battles, driven about forty menzils, and had very little sleep. I ask that you bring this
to a speedy vote.”

  Quarina looked over the council. “Are the honorable elders ready to vote?”

  “No!” Orlad jumped to his feet. “I am not … I will …”

  “‘I withdraw,’” Dantio murmured without opening his eyes.

  “I withdraw.” Orlad sat down and went back to staring at the floor. He had accepted the inevitable.

  Fabia reached over to him and squeezed his shoulder in thanks. He pushed her away.

  “At the moment, then,” Quarina said wryly, “we seem to have no eligible candidate at all. Lord Marno Cavotti, are you and your betrothed willing to declare yourselves man and wife before the gods and this company?”

  Cavotti looked down—a long way down—at his bride-to-be. Or bride.

  Fabia murmured, “Fortune favors the swift.”

  “We are,” he told the Speaker.

  “And who gives this woman in marriage?”

  Dantio said, “Orlad, say ‘I do.’”

  Orlad said, “I do.”

  “Turn to face holy Veslih,” the Speaker said. “That one, up there. Marno Cavotti, repeat after me …” She ran through an extremely brief ceremony of marriage. “I declare you husband and wife. Honored elders, if you accept lord Marno as doge, pray stand. Unanimous. Doge Marno, you are elected according to the customs of the city. You may also kiss your bride.”

  MARNO CAVOTTI

  had learned how to make speeches, as he had learned so many other skills. First, he assured his new in-laws that they would remain honored members of the ducal family.

  “This palace is your home,” he said, “and always will be, as much as you want it to be. My lady, my lords, you will be granted estates to support you in a style befitting your rank. I count on all of you to help my wife and myself bear our great burdens. The war is won, but the troubles will continue for years. From now on Celebre must stand guardian on the passes, forbidding invasions in either direction.” And so on. Oliva and Orlad nodded. Dantio smiled politely.