Irona 700 (6 page)

The two men exchanged a very brief glance and concurred. The scarecrow tyke was led away to be sold. Her owner might still use her as a prostitute, although that was illegal, but she might be put to work in a sweatshop or food market. At least she would not be tied naked to the whipping post and half flayed; from now on someone would see that she had food and shelter. While Irona felt sick to her stomach at what she had done, she was sure that she had seen a flash of relief on the child's face when the sentence was announced.

“Next case. …”

When the court adjourned at noon, Irona had been accessory to eight executions, nine floggings, and three enslavements. So far as she could tell, she had not made anything worse and might have reduced a couple of sentences. Moreover, her fellow judges were not dismissing her as a bleeding heart.

“I approve of your advancement of slavery,” Dilivost proclaimed as he congratulated her. “We tend to overlook that option.”

“It brings in revenue,” Irona announced with a straight face. To the rich, slaves were tools, ranking so far below their owners' status that normally only servants would even give them orders, but she had known quite a few slaves in Brackish and most of them had not been conspicuously less happy than the free.

Music, history, and rhetoric classes took care of the afternoon.

That night, the evening meal at Trodelat's house went better than Irona had expected. Her morning adventure had not come to her tutor's ears, so Irona was able to break the news herself. By not mentioning her previous attendances at the court, she could make today's participation sound like a pure accident.

Even so, Trodelat was suspicious. Her pupil was starting to slip out of her control. “You enjoy slaughtering children?”

“By no means, but I gather that every Chosen gets appointed to the Juvenile Court at least once, and the extra money would mean more to me now than it might twenty years from now.”

Her tutor could only approve of this cold-blooded political calculation. “Very well argued! The election is tonight, is it not? I shall mention your interest to Obnosa. So far as I know, she has not promised to support any other candidate. As you say, the position is not coveted.” A prestigious appointment for her pupil would reflect well on her own tutelage.

“Very kind of you, Trodelat.” Obnosa 658, Trodelat's patron, had her eye on an upcoming seat among the Seven and was scrounging every vote and calling in all the favors she could.

At this time of year, the Seventy met almost every day, and always at sunset. Before each meeting, they would gather in a small, shady garden in the Palace, a nook known as the Scandal Market, there to scheme and trade among the greenery. Since few people, even Chosen, lived to be eighty-six, there were never as many as seventy Seventies, and some were always absent on imperial business. Most days less than fifty of the Chosen turned up in blue-green robes, plus the Seven in purple. The First did not attend in the garden.

Irona was expected to stay close to Trodelat, and Trodelat swam in Obnosa's shoal of toadies. Obnosa's patron had been one of the Seven and had died quite recently. She had failed to win the by-election for his seat, but in a few days, two more would become vacant and she was thought to have a good chance. As the most junior member of the group, Irona found herself on the outskirts, but that often happened and she welcomed the chance to natter with other juniors.

This evening she found herself openly stalked by a tall, cadaverous young man. She knew him, of course, because she knew them all. Ledacos 692 was eight years her senior and generally believed to have promise. Eight years was a difficult gap: should she address him by name or as “sir”? To see him without companions in the Scandal Market was surprising, but she let herself be cornered beside a marble statue of a priapic faun skulking behind an oleander bush.

“I hear you are a candidate for the Juvenile Court, 700,” he said with no preamble.

“You have sharp ears, '92.”

He grinned, so she did, too.

“Why?” he asked. “You enjoy killing children?”

“No. Because I know I can do the work, and it pays better than any other job that I have a reasonable chance of winning.”

He nodded. “Good reasons. I'll see what I can do to help.”

“Thank you.”

“But my help won't be needed. Mofe himself is going to nominate­ you.”

“You know this?” she demanded, astonished. All offices came with limited terms, and incumbents could not succeed themselves right away, but they had an unofficial right to nominate their successors. While that would rarely prevent other names being put forward, it was said to be worth fifteen votes as a gratuity for a job well done, and it was a courtesy to be returned in due course. In the case of an unpopular office like a Juvenile Court judge, nomination by a Seven would almost guarantee election.

“He told me.”

“You asked him to?”

Ledacos's eyes twinkled. “No. We were discussing my future, not yours, and he wouldn't have suggested it had you not impressed him this morning.”

“Well! Thank you again. And what are you hoping for?” Tit for tat, of course, except that he probably had a phalanx of supporters to follow his lead and she would bring nobody with her.

“Let's finish planning your career first. What else are you after?”

“I haven't decided.” The court would not fill up her days. Something else might be tossed her way, and if not, there were always more classes.

Ledacos stepped closer and glanced around conspiratorially. “How about the Navy Board?”

“A woman?” she exclaimed, almost laughing aloud. Benign owed its empire and its wealth to its maritime trade and its navy. The idea of the Seventy letting a chit of a girl meddle with either was ludicrous.

But Ledacos wasn't laughing. “You come from a nautical family. Many of the Seventy know a little about shipping, but only because their families own ships or traded overseas. Have you ever been to sea?”

Irona did not doubt that he already knew the answer.

“Yes. I have sailed south to Lenoch and as far north as Brandur.”

“Gods save us! You're better qualified than almost anyone. I know from experience that much of the Navy work can be arranged to suit your convenience, so your court attendance won't interfere. Best of all, you are clever.”

So was he. Meeting his bright, metallic gaze she wondered why she had not remarked that before. His neck was a cubit long and sinewy, his face was all bone, hacked out of flint, his arms and legs were hairy, but the most notable thing about him was the presence of an intimidating mind. That explained why people spoke of him as someone to watch.

“I am very flattered, but—”

“I will nominate you.”

That was a thunderbolt. Ledacos was completing a two-year term on the Navy Board.

“I am speechless,” she said.

Again the sudden grin, making the angular face for a moment almost boyish. “Don't believe you.”

“And you? I can't deliver more than one vote, but it is certainly yours.”

“Treaty Commission,” he said, with another quick glance around. “I have twenty-three promised, so you may well put me over the top.”

Irona felt her hopes crash around her. “Ah, that's tricky. My tutor … I promised.”

“Oh, of course,” he said quickly. “I should have remembered that she is a candidate. You cannot go back on your word. But if she is eliminated in an early ballot?

“Then I shall be happy to switch my vote to you.” Irona did not believe for an instant that Ledacos had forgotten that her tutor was one of his opponents for the Treaty Commission.

He smiled. “Thank you. We should separate before people start thinking we're plotting.”

“We're not?” she said, laughing, but he was already stalking away. Seen from the rear, he had good shoulders, tapering down to the hips of a snake. She wondered why he did not have his tunics tailored to make him look more fashionably plump.

Irona was almost free of Trodelat's iron hand. She would need employment, which now looked more promising than she had dared hope. She would need somewhere to live, which would bring complications of its own and might have to wait. And she would need companionship.

Not
Ledacos 692!

Chosen were off-limits, otherwise sex was allowed, marriage not, but at social functions, a Chosen needed an escort. Trodelat's choice of a hired gigolo certainly did not appeal—in fact, Irona did not trust Captain Jamarko as far as she could see through a stone wall. But Trodelat had warned her many times that romance between two Chosen was guaranteed disaster. Although Irona had heard scandalous stories of past affairs, she knew of no gossip about anyone breaking that rule at present.

She headed off in search of Trodelat. As she approached the group around Obnosa 658, the great gong sounded, seven beats jarring teeth and toe bones throughout the Scandal Market. People began moving toward the door of the Assembly Hall.

Irona caught Trodelat's arm to pull her aside.

“I am told that Seven Mofe is going to nominate me for the Juvenile Court.”

Her tutor's automatic smile melted into shock. It returned with an effort and open suspicion. “That is wonderful news, my dear! Have you found yourself a patron, then?”

“I am certainly being offered patronage. I did not seek it.”

“Let's go and sit down and you can tell me all about it. I can advise you.”

The Assembly Hall was much larger than it need be to hold seventy people, but it passed sound beautifully, so that even whispers could carry. The walls were thick and the windows kept shuttered by day. Now they were open, and the cooler evening breeze was starting to disperse the stuffiness.

But by the time Irona and Trodelat had entered the dim hall and found two chairs together and not too far from Obnosa, the time for chat had ended. A bugle call announced the entrance of the First, and everyone rose
.

First Dostily 631 was showing his age, walking with a shuffling stoop as if the weight of his splendid scarlet robes was almost too much to bear. He crossed in front of the assembled Seventy, with the purple-clad Seven following in single file, although only five were present that evening. The First took his seat on the red throne, the Seven on their line of lesser, purple thrones, all facing the assembly. A table of secretaries off to the side waited to record the proceedings. The great bronze doors closed with thunder and the meeting was in session.

In theory, the First had very little power. He chaired meetings of the Seven. He set salaries and the terms of employment, but his changes did not take effect until after the next election, so he could not reward friends in their present offices. In meetings of the Seven or the Seventy, he could change the order of items on the agenda, so an item he disliked might never come to a vote. He could indicate his disapproval of a decision by calling for a second vote, which would often result in the first result being overturned to please him. In practice, those rights had always been sufficient to let most Firsts run the Empire to their own satisfaction.

It was the Seven who set the agenda for all meetings of the Seventy. As Chosen themselves, they participated in the discussion and voting. They also took turns at chairing the meetings, the chairman always sitting farthest from the First. That evening it was old Mofe 632, who had presided over the Juvenile Court that morning. He accepted a slate from a secretary and read out the excuses of those not present. All were absent from the city on state business, except for one who had been granted a day's leave to bury his mother, and Podnelbi 681, who was indisposed. That announcement raised murmurs of surprise and alarm. An indisposed Chosen was almost certainly on his deathbed, and only the poor died as young as thirty-seven.

Irona was probably more shocked than anyone. If Podnelbi had not faked his absence from the court that morning, then her chance to show her mettle on the bench had not been a political favor; it had been a direct intervention by the goddess, just like the girl who had fainted to block Nis Puol Dvure's choosing.

Mofe read out the first item, election of the next Inspector of Fish Markets.

Dreadful silence.

Mofe called on the retiring inspector to recommend a successor. The lady in question rose reluctantly and spoke a name, which was a sure way to earn a lifelong enemy. Red with fury, the nominee came forward to be recognized. There being no other nominations, he was declared elected. The First might decide to increase the stipend in the future, to make the office more attractive.

Director of Street Cleaning drew a surprising three candidates.

Then came nominations for tutor for the next male Chosen. This brought more interest, because of the second vote it brought, and the possibility of a lifetime client after the two-year tutelage ended. Three men were nominated and went to the front. Hands were raised, and the winner was declared to be Ledacos 692, with a clear majority over both opponents combined. Almost certainly he had won because he had been nominated by a Seven, Knipry 640.

“Making his move,” Trodelat whispered as the candidates returned to their seats.

“What?”

“Ten years since he was Chosen. Future Firsts all start by building support in their twenties, then serving terms on all the major committees in their thirties. Then they can hope to make the Seven after they've turned forty.”

Trodelat herself was thirty-eight, and not conspicuously a power broker yet, so far as her pupil had noticed. The rules might be slightly different for a woman, though, because they were so few. Irona had no chance to think about it, because now Obnosa was rising to nominate Irona 700 to be tutor for the next Chosen—should the blind goddess be so wayward as to choose another woman so soon, although no one would say that in mixed company.

Heart thumping, Irona went forward to bow to the First and stand at the front. She felt like a slave at an auction, a sudden insight that startled her. A Chosen who refused an appointment might face drastic penalties, so the highest and lowest in the land were similarly bound to serve. She tried not to remember the children she had condemned to slavery that morning.