Irona 700 (8 page)

“That?” Ledacos whispered. “He has rickets! Truly the goddess is blind.”

“Was she blind two years ago?”

“She was insanely cruel to make you a Chosen as well as me. That mite is never sixteen!”

Irona ignored the first remark as if it had been a slip of the tongue, which it might have been, except that Ledacos's tongue wore cleats.

“He may have been starved all his life,” she said.

Komev had actually gone down on his knees to set the collar around the boy's neck, and he was still almost as tall. The new Chosen was weeping.

“I think you'd better go down right away and provide some assistance,” Irona said. “701 is out of his depth.”

“So am I. He needs a woman. Come with me.” Taking her wrist so she could not refuse, Ledacos led her out of the door.

By the time they had run down the stairs, Komev had brought the boy into the cool peace of the recovery room, away from the thousands of eyes. The priests had not yet brought refreshments for the new Chosen, but he was sitting on a chair, feet swinging, and stuffing himself from the remains of Komev's breakfast in the silver bowl, which Komev was holding for him. The collar seemed ready to slide down over 702's shoulders and pin his arms.

Komev 701 looked up with relief at the arriving reinforcements. “Meet Dychat 702.”

Irona knelt beside him and looked into the red-rimmed, terrified eyes.

“Welcome, Dychat. Don't eat so fast.”

He dropped a half-eaten prawn back in the bowl and cringed as if expecting to be struck.

Irona tried again. “I just meant that you'll make yourself sick. There's no hurry. You will never be hungry again.”

His hand reached for the prawn as if it had a life of its own. He might be thirteen, but eleven seemed more likely. He needed a bath, several baths, and a thorough delousing.

“Anything else you want?” she asked.

His chin trembled. “My mother?”

But did his mother want him? If she had wanted to be rid of him, she could have told him he was sixteen and sent him off to the coming-of-age ritual. Then he would be legally an adult and on his own. Truly, Caprice was well named.

The priests arrived, alarming the child even more, until he saw the spread they were laying out and was told he could help himself. Then he rushed to the table and tried to stuff his mouth with both hands while the adult watchers didn't know whether to laugh or weep.

Outside, the seemingly endless parade of adolescents trooped across the bridge. The counting had changed, though. Now there were no groups of ten; postulant priests simply counted heads going by and signaled for a drumbeat or trumpet call as needed. Why be so careful before the choosing, and less so afterward?

Eventually Ledacos told Dychat that he had better stop or he would burst, and would he like a ride in a sedan chair? Instantly worried again, the boy asked what a sedan chair was, but then agreed that it might be fun.

“We'll go to my house then. Irona lives nearby, so you'll be able to see her again quite often. Won't he, Irona?”

Of course, she agreed, wondering if she ought to acquire some building blocks or a skipping rope for the new Chosen to play with.

Azalka 660 was a tall, stiff woman whose mouth looked as if she disapproved of most things, but she greeted Irona warmly enough when she arrived at Sebrat House. Azalka was the senior commissioner of Property and had the house in her gift, so far as assigning it to a Chosen was concerned.

“Too small for most, but a fine starter home,” she declared. “The view from the terrace is especially fine. Shall we begin there?”

A fast tour of house and grounds took about half an hour and left Irona overwhelmed by splendor. She had visited many mansions in the last two years, but not with an eye to owning any of them. Sebrat House was small by Chosen standards but a hundred times larger than her parents' home. It was lavishly decorated and furnished, and even Azalka gave grudging approval of the designers' taste. Irona had expected to find servants present, but wherever she went, from the grandiose master bedroom to the cavernous kitchens, she saw no one. Yet a fire smoldered in the kitchen range, and no speck of dust lingered anywhere.

The tour ended in the ballroom, which was the only part of the building that Irona had visited before that day, and which commanded a breathtaking view of the city and its great circular bay.

“A very fine neighborhood,” Azalka said thoughtfully. “Were I not chair of the Property Commission, I might crave it for my own.”

“Neighbors?” Irona had already registered that the mansions flanking Sebrat were several times grander.

“Seven Knipry this side, Chosen Ledacos that side.”

He had not mentioned that cozy little arrangement. Irona had not been pursued by a man since Sklom bulged his biceps at her; now none dared express interest in her. Possibly Ledacos's hints had been no more than some sort of ruling-class compliment, but the potential for future flirtation would add some spice to life. The fact that only a high stone wall would now separate her from her patron was the deciding factor. She was going to accept Sebrat House.

“Can I possibly afford this?”

Azalka chuckled. “If you can afford to feed eight or nine servants, you won't notice the rent. Say two dolphins a month?”

“If you were to rent it to a citizen?”

“Two or three hundred.” Azalka smiled with the joy of power and took her companion's assent for granted. “You can move in at any time. I mentioned to the servants and other residents that you might wish some of them to stay on. Would you like to interview them now?”

“Er … yes.” The prospect would only get worse if she delayed.

“Ring a bell when you are ready, then. I must run. I have a meeting of the Ad Hoc Sumptuary Laws Committee at noon, such a bore. Please excuse …”

Her voice tailed away as she hastened to the door. Irona went over to the nearest bell rope and tugged. She considered sitting on a chair of intricately carved narwhal ivory and was deterred by visions of it collapsing under her. She wandered back to the windows to enjoy the vista. Sebrat stood higher on the Mountain than Trodelat's house.

Within seconds, a woman entered and approached. She was swathed in black, so that only her arms were visible. Irona rose and held out hands to greet her, but the newcomer dropped to her knees, then lifted back her veil, keeping her eyes lowered. She looked far too young to have a son of about Irona's age, but that just meant that Chosen Podnelbi had provided his paramour with Source Water. Her shoulders bore the brands of a freedwoman. Even in grief, she was beautiful.

“I am Velny Lavice, ma'am.”

“Please rise.”

Velny shot her a surprised glance and almost imperceptibly shook her head. A freedwoman ranked above a slave but below a citizen and infinitely far below one of the goddess's Chosen.

Irona might make mistakes, but she must not admit to them. The last time they had met, Velny had been mistress of the house.

“I insist! We are not yet mistress and servant and may never be. At the moment I am merely a friend come to offer sympathy.”

Velny rose, Irona embraced her, then led the way to a couch.

“I am told that the law evicts you with disgusting haste. Have you family to go to? Other plans?”

“None, ma'am.”

Not even the married daughter? “It was suggested that you might be willing to stay on here and run the establishment as my housekeeper.”

“I should be deeply grateful for such mercy, ma'am, and would serve you to the very best of my ability.”

“Then we are agreed. What would you pay a housekeeper?”

“Between three and five dolphins, ma'am, depending on her performance.”

“I heard seven, so seven it shall be. Now what other staff do we have?”

Two cooks, four guards—of whom the two juniors doubled as porters—three gardeners, two cleaning maids, a valet, and a ladies' maid. Extra help was brought in for banquets. The total was more than Ledacos had said, but probably the minimum needed to run a place this size. Six were slaves, who required no wages but would expect to be freed after twenty years or so.

“I have no need for a valet.”

“I believe he has already received at least one offer, ma'am.”

“Good. Please keep on the others, except any you feel do not merit employment. Now, you also have a son. I met him once, here in this room, but I confess I forget his name.”

“Vlyplatin Lavice, but he has no training or experience as a servant, ma'am.”

“Of course not. Tell me about him.”

Again the surprised glance, gone in a moment. “He is nineteen and was articled to an attorney.”

Was?
“And betrothed, I was told.”

Velny nodded, her expression bitter. “That also.” A living Chosen could advance the fortunes of a family or a legal firm, a dead one could not. What future did Vlyplatin have now?

“The blind one can be cruel. Is he here now? I wish to speak with him.”

“Ma'am, he is in deep mourning.”

“I understand.”

Looking worried, Velny curtsied and departed. She had probably been in deep mourning herself until an hour or two ago.

Irona went back to the window. After a few minutes, she realized that a slim young man had entered in silence and was kneeling at her feet, staring in silence at the floor. He wore only a rag around his loins and had clearly been rolling in dirt: hair, face, limbs, and all his visible torso were filthy. He would proudly walk the streets like that for a month, displaying his grief, but he was close to naked, and so embarrassed to be interviewed in private by a young woman that his blush showed through the grime and stubble. Deep mourning for men also included a limited diet and sleeping on bare floors. And in spite of it all, Irona was very conscious of his incredible good looks and warned herself that she must not let them warp her judgment.

“Oh. Um, Vly …”

“Vlyplatin Lavice, ma'am. At your service.”

His voice was a deep growl that ought to belong to a much older, larger man. She remembered the voice.

“Stand up, please.”

He rose but did not look at her.

“My sorrow on your loss, Vlyplatin. I watched your father in Juvenile Court a few times and was impressed by the care and dedication he brought to every case. The Seventy will miss him. His death has probably struck you harder than anyone, even your mother. Have you made any plans yet?”

He shook his head and swallowed hard, as if he was still close to tears. He was young to lose a father, young to be thrown out with nothing into an uncaring world.

“I seem to recall standing in this very spot a few months ago with a couple of other Chosen and a visiting Lenochian, while you pointed out some of the sights to him. Would you do so again, please? As if I was a stranger to Benign.”

He blinked in surprise and almost pouted, as if any distraction from his mourning was an imposition, but then he turned to the window and did as she had asked. His growl had a true Benesh lilt, much more acceptable than her own voice, which still carried dregs of Brackish.

When he pointed out the Source of Chiala, she interrupted. “Explain to me about the Sources. Why does Benign have three?”

“You would have to ask the goddess that, ma'am. No other city has more than one, and of course that explains much of our prosperity, or did so early in the city's history. It is indeed strange that such a tiny island should have come to rule so great an empire.”

“Go on. Keep talking.” He was as easy to listen to as to look at.

“Well, Benign has the world's finest harbor, sheltered by the Mountain from the westerly winter storms, and I expect it had fine forests back then, for timber to build ships, and we grew rich exporting Source Water. Our republic flourished because we had three Sources, so no one family was able to control all the income and impose its …”

He was articulate, poised, and quick-witted. She threw irrelevant questions at him, but he had guessed that she was testing him and performed as required, answering them all if he could, fielding the rest. She wondered if he would rebel if she asked him to sing for her.

“Thank you,” she said. “Impressive! I have engaged your mother as my housekeeper and will keep on all, or almost all, the servants. But you have been raised as a gentleman.”

“I would be extremely grateful for any employment, ma'am, no matter how menial.”

“I will not demean you. What I need is an escort.” Not someone like Captain Jamarko, whom Trodelat dragged to every social engagement, jangling like a smithy in his armor.

Vlyplatin's head whipped around, and he looked right at her for the first time, staring in amazement.

“Whose duties, I stress, will end at the outside of my bedroom door.”

He blushed scarlet and dropped his gaze again. “Escort a
Chosen
?”

“You would,” Irona said, anxious to dowse emotional fires, “have to dress better than that, though.”

He grinned at the floor. Even his ears were red. “Of course, ma'am.”

“Gentlemen carry daggers, sometimes even swords. Have you had any weapons training?”

“Just a little, ma'am.”

“I would see you got more, as much as you can benefit from. If you have the agility, I would have you become an expert swordsman. You would be free to complete your deep mourning ritual. I have been entrusted with two important offices, so I will be receiving many social invitations. I need someone to escort me to them and be my host when I entertain here. I repeat that I do not expect you to be my lover. I will pay you five dolphins to start with, probably more later, and you will have to dress like a gentleman. Would you be willing to perform an escort's duties?”

Apparently too overcome to speak, Vlyplatin prostrated himself and kissed her sandal.

Irona moved in three days later, requiring only one bearer to carry her meager possessions. Trodelat seemed genuinely sorry to see her leave, and Irona knew the old nag was going to be lonely with only her bronze-plated gigolo for company. And she … She must not think about her next-door neighbor.