by Dave Duncan
For bloodsucking monsters, they seemed remarkably well behaved. The one who impressed her most was the slightly stooped, silver-haired Knipry 640. He actually kissed her hand, with a gleam of mockery in faded old eyes under tufted eyebrows as white as breakers. His age was confirmed by his collar, an incredible seventy-six! Old enough to be her great-grandfather.
“Brackish?” he murmured. “Somebody told me you’re from Brackish?”
“I can’t help the way I talk.”
“Of course not, and I like it. Sailors everywhere have rough, hard speech like that, so they can be heard in the storms. Our slithery singsong would be drowned out by the winds and waves. But it seems to me that the Navy Board has an old, old petition moldering away in its in-basket. About Brackish … Something to do with a breakwater?”
Irona remembered much angry talk. “It’s too short! It doesn’t shelter the boats when we get nor’easters. Winds from the northeast, that is.” South Wind had been damaged once.
Knipry nodded. She guessed that he had known all that and been testing her. “Then we’d better do something about it! We must thank the good folk of Brackish for sending us such a beautiful Chosen to show up the rest of us old relics.”
Just minutes later, after Irona had been led indoors, welcomed by the First himself on his throne, and applauded by everyone else, that same Knipry stood up and asked for unanimous consent to amend the agenda, whatever that meant, by adding a vote to provide funds for a much-needed extension to the breakwater at Brackish.
It was then that Irona began to feel doubts. Might this disaster include some good fortune after all?
The Year 702
Somehow Irona’s escape plans kept retreating as she approached, like rainbows. They faded into visions of rescue. No, she wouldn’t escape back to the hovel in Brackish; she would rescue her family and bring them here to the Mountain. When her two years were up and she was no longer a pupil, but a fully fledged Chosen, then she would have a palace of her own and unthinkable amounts of money, and she would have herself carried back to Brackish in a gilded sedan chair and invite them to join her and enjoy a better life. Her mother and her sisters, and some of her brothers. Maybe not her father. Certainly not her father! And meanwhile she must work hard and study hard and show them that she might talk funny and not know how to dance yet, but she could learn. She was not stupid. She could learn to be every bit as good a Chosen as that foppish Nis Puol Dvure would ever have been. She would have to learn to think like a man, though.
Sometime in those two years, her attitude changed yet again. Even if the priests or the Seven had been trying to force the selection of Nis Puol Dvure or some other candidate of their own choosing by means of a fake miracle, their own choice had certainly not been Irona Matrinko. Therefore, the goddess had thwarted them, so Irona truly had been divinely selected, and fealty to the gods required her to do her best to serve her city as a Chosen. She could fight the tyranny from the inside instead of grumbling about it in whispers outside.
She discovered that stupidity could not be cured, but ignorance could; while she was uneducated, she was smarter than she had ever suspected. She was, in fact, a lot brighter than some of the other Chosen. She watched, listened, read, learned necessary skills, and cultivated the right people.
Although the Chosen were paid enormous stipends and the state provided their mansions almost gratis, they had very large running costs to meet and an imperial lifestyle to support. The salary for each office was set by the First, who served for life and was therefore no longer in competition. The offices that paid the most were much in demand, but so were those that brought great prestige or power. It was not quite true that the Chosen could not be bribed.
“Busy days ahead,” Trodelat remarked at breakfast. “Many positions to be filled before Midsummer, including the elections for two of the Seven. We must start thinking about some appointments for you.”
She popped another grape in her mouth. She had a silver bowl full of grapes, peeled and seeded by her kitchen slaves.
As was their custom, the two Chosen were beginning their day with a light repast on Trodelat’s terrace, enjoying its spectacular view of the city and the harbor. The sky was cloudless, as was expected in Benign in summer, and by noon the sun would be hot enough to melt bronze, a reminder that Irona had almost completed her tutelage. She had never made a fool of herself or her tutor. She had not attempted to make any speeches in the Chamber—three or four years from now would be time enough for that. Had she tried, the chairman might not have recognized her, and at first her Brackish accent would have had the honorable Seventy sniggering behind their hands. Now she had been taught to speak proper Benesh, plus rudiments of rhetoric, history, reading and writing, decorum, protocol, history, geography, finance, dancing, music, poetry, and about a thousand other topics. After seven centuries, Benign knew how to train its rulers, even one who had been fished out of the cesspool by mistake.
“What do you suggest?” Irona asked, sipping Source Water. She had some plans of her own, which she had not yet mentioned to her tutor.
“Well, the choosing is coming up soon. You might go after the female tuition. There’s almost no chance that the goddess will choose another girl so soon after you, so you win some free cash for wasting half a holiday.”
A year ago, Irona had placed a jade collar around the neck of 701’s Chosen, a gangling redhead, Komev, who looked as if he ought to be Komev 697 and might have been romantically interesting had he not been permanently labeled as being a year younger than she, and out of bounds anyway.
“But supposing Caprice lives up to her name and does choose another girl? I have no establishment of my own.” Irona assumed that this was what she was supposed to say.
“Oh, you are welcome to stay on here. I have plenty of room. This place is far too big for me.”
That would effectively establish Trodelat 680 as Irona’s patron and give her three votes in the Chamber, instead of the two she had at the moment. Trodelat was angling for a seat on the Treaty Commission, which supervised the behavior of the tribute states. The graft involved in settling even one boundary dispute would make her many times richer than she was already, but probably she was more interested in the prestige. Although she never admitted it, Trodelat had her heart set on eventually becoming the first-ever female First. Irona could not imagine a worse fate.
“Surely I need something more permanent?”
“Oh, I meant as well. The choosing was just a thought.” Trodelat mused, although she had probably been planning her next words for days or weeks. “With your background, perhaps the Harbor Board? Or Supervisor of Fish Markets? Both good training grounds. Not romantic, but the romantic ones don’t pay well.
“And,” she continued, before Irona needed to think up any polite refusals, “it really is time you started wearing some jewelry. You are still as skinny as a fishing pole, too. People must think I don’t feed you or trust you near my jewel box.”
“I eat like a hog, ’80, and you know it! If I stay slim, it’s not from want of trying and certainly no fault of your excellent cooks.” As for jewels, right from the first Irona had declined offers of loans of any of her tutor’s adornments on the grounds that she would wait until she had earned such finery for herself. She had drawn that line purely on instinct, but two years’ experience had promoted it into a personal statement. Although the Chosen never discussed their own backgrounds, they were always ready to gossip about one another’s, and it had not taken Irona long to identify a few of the Seventy whose origins had been humble, although none as humble as her own. And she had noticed that the poorer their families had been, the more they were now inclined to flaunt their present grandeur, men and women both. So let them glitter and shine! She wore her sandals, her smock, and her jade collar, and that was absolutely that.
“Oh, look at those shadows!” Irona sprang to her feet. “I must rush! My danc
ing coach is eager to give me extra lessons.”
“Not too eager, I hope?”
“That, too. That’s why I insist on early morning classes. He’s not as ambitious then!” Laughing at her own lie, Irona scurried away. Deception was not part of the official curriculum, but she was getting good at that, too.
Irona sent a slave to fetch a litter for the journey up to the First’s Palace. Half an hour later, she slipped in through the public door of the Juvenile Court and took a seat in the front row. This was the fourth time she had sat in on the proceedings over the last couple of months. Members of the public who attended, mostly witnesses or relatives of the accused, generally shunned that conspicuous location, and the three justices must certainly have noticed her blue-green robe and jade collar. She was quietly—if not subtly—demonstrating interest.
Juvenile Court paid much better than the Fish Marketing Board, and she suspected that a seat on the bench could be hers almost for the asking. Minor offenses and first offenders were tried by district courts. Only crimes that might call for the death penalty came to the attention of the Chosen, and even the hardened cynics of the Seventy must dislike ordering children flogged or killed. Irona was repelled by such thoughts, but it was a job she was sure she could handle more sympathetically than people who had been rocked in golden cradles.
Capital punishment took several forms in the Empire, but one thing the executions all had in common was that the criminal was gagged first. A name spoken with a dying breath was a prayer to Bane. Nothing was more dangerous than a death curse.
The big hall was filling up, although she was still alone on the front bench. The four clerks filed in and spread their tablets and slates on their table. Then one of them went out again. He returned after a few moments, but that had been a break in routine. Irona warned herself not to read too much into what might have been just a hasty visit to the bucket closet.
The bailiff bade all to rise, so all rose. In filed the judges, but only two of them: Dilivost 678 in Chosen blue green and Mofe 632 in the purple of a Seven. All sat and the courtroom fell silent.
“The court regrets to announce,” old Mofe mumbled, “that our learned Justice Podnelbi 681 has suddenly become indisposed and cannot attend.”
A mutter of surprise from the spectators was too soft to produce calls for order, yet they all knew that the Chosen were all wealthy enough to afford the perfect health granted by a daily draft of Source Water.
“Fortunately, I see a possible substitute present. Chosen Irona 700, would you consent to fill in for our ailing brother justice?”
Irona was not merely willing but ecstatic. She was to be tested, and she prided herself on having never failed a fair test in her life. She nodded gravely. Rising and moving with dignity, as she had been taught, she went up to the judges’ bench.
Eyes twinkling, Mofe swore her in as a judge. His hair was starting to gray and he had wrinkles around his eyes, but among commoners he would have passed as a fifty-year-old. Juvenile Court was a very lowly office for a Seven, so he must have arranged his election for his own devious reasons—to do a favor for someone, or to avoid election to something even worse a few days later.
Dilivost just nodded gravely to her. He must have agreed to this procedure, but he was reserving judgment.
Irona took her seat on Mofe’s left. The judges’ desk was sloped and bore no tablets or books, only a single slate and three black disks, which would be invisible to everyone else. She looked at them blankly. Old Mofe turned his over, to show her that the other side was white. “To show whether you agree or disagree with the suggested verdict,” he murmured.
She nodded.
“First case?” he inquired.
The first case was a hulking bear of a youth who looked at least twenty. Two witnesses had sworn that he was only fifteen and had never attended a choosing. He was charged with brawling, which was not in itself an offense, and causing bodily injury, namely putting out a boy’s eye with his thumb during the fight, which was. His family could not or would not pay compensation.
He pled guilty.
“What is the standard sentence?” Mofe inquired, likely for Irona’s benefit, because he must know the entire legal code by heart.
“Branding and a hundred lashes, Your Honor,” said the chief clerk.
“Has the accused any alternative to offer?”
The accused mumbled something inaudible and peered around anxiously. A man in military bronze arose in the body of the court.
“Navy will accept the accused, Your Honors.”
Mofe turned his disk over to show white. Dilivost followed suit. So did Irona.
“The judgment of the court is that the accused shall serve in the military of the Republic until 717, and this sentence be tattooed on his right shoulder. Next case.”
That had not been difficult.
The next one was a little tougher. He looked about ten but had been caught breaking into a house at night. With childish folly, he had picked the home of a stevedore who had three grown sons. The resulting damage still showed on his face and the sling supporting his right arm. He had two thief marks already, so he ought to have been taken to the adult court, whatever his age, but perhaps the bailiffs had thought he had already been punished enough.
“Your turn, Judge Dilivost,” Mofe said softly.
Dilivost turned his disk black side up. In this case that meant death.
The other two concurred. Had Irona disagreed, she would have been outvoted. If she showed any mercy at all today, she would fail the test. At least until she was elected, she must be the toughest of the tough. The Seventy would not want a milksop chit of a girl in the judiciary, Juvenile Court or not.
The third case was tougher yet. The accused looked no more than twelve and had admitted to being a prostitute, but not to drugging and robbing a client.
“This is her second appearance on this charge?” Mofe inquired, although again he must know the answer.
“It is, Your Honor.”
Mofe glanced inquiringly at Irona. She frowned and raised an eyebrow, wanting to be sure she understood.
He whispered, “So she hasn’t eaten in four days. Not many of them hold out that long.”
Perhaps not in his world, but down in the gutters, food came less reliably, so people grew up with hunger. Starvation was a standard technique to force a guilty plea and save the court’s time.
Dilivost leaned closer. “Remand for two more days?” he whispered.
“Can we hear the evidence?” Irona asked, having missed the accused’s first appearance before the court.
“We heard the plaintiff and told him he need not come back,” Mofe said. “They had agreed to a fee of two copper fish. The idiot accepted a cup of wine first and woke up in an alley bare, um … totally naked.”
“A fix?”
“We considered that, but decided not to press the matter.”
A fix was any magical device, and its use or possession was punishable by the sea death, the harshest sentence the court could impose. At least this waif was not threatened with that.
“Your turn, 700,” Mofe persisted.
Irona had spent long hours studying the penal code and she knew the standard penalty would be a branding and at least twenty lashes. A girl so scarred would be trapped in the gutter forevermore, unable to obtain a husband or even honest work.
“Slavery,” she said. White side up.
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 t
he 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.”