by Dave Duncan
The boy flushed. “Sir, my tutor has taught me to—”
“Your tutor, if you will forgive my saying so, is a stuffed walrus. Mine taught me that Chosen never kneel to other Chosen. Now help yourself to as much as you can carry.” He waved at the loaded table. “And don’t call me ‘sir.’”
Komev hesitated. “Is it possible to change tutors, ’92?”
Ledacos regarded him in silence while nibbling a fig. “I suppose it might be permitted, but you would make lifelong enemies of your present tutor and all his clients. As would whoever took you on.”
“Oh.”
“Tough it out for another year,” Ledacos said with more sympathy. “684’s not a bad man, just a little too rigid on protocol, and you’ll do better getting too much of that than too little. He’s had a lot of administrative experience, so listen to what he tells you. Next year at this time, if you want me as your patron, I will be honored to accept you as a client. I’ve been keeping my eye on you, and so far you look most promising.”
Komev’s flush turned as red as his hair. He began loading food into a silver bowl with both hands. His idea of what he would need was astounding.
“They’re starting,” Irona said from the window as the first brass disk went slithering away down the chute. “Does the goddess ever choose one of the early birds?”
“She is reputed to have chosen the very first in line a century or so ago,” Ledacos said.
Whether that was true or not, Komev believed him. Grabbing up his bowl and the 702 collar, he tore out of the room to wait downstairs for the next Chosen.
“Come and eat,” Ledacos said. “Our young friend overlooked a few scraps. We may be here for hours. You kept us waiting long enough.”
“Me?” She returned to the table.
“Two years ago. I was here with Trodelat all day.”
He did not quite roll his eyes, but she pretended that he had.
“My tutor, or former tutor, is not a stuffed walrus! I am quite certain of that, because I have helped skin walruses.”
He laughed. “Goddess preserve us, what a horrible thought! No, but she does pall after a few hours. By the way, I have never seen anyone look more surprised than you did when you were Chosen.”
“Likely not,” she said carefully.
He studied her for a moment, that clever-clever mind analyzing. “You thought that the Dvure boy was supposed to be the one and the girl fainting spoiled the plot. But what plot, Irona? How could they rig the choosing?”
“I have no idea.” To put her suspicions into words would accuse her own father of using a fix.
Ledacos shrugged. “One day I hope you will trust me enough to tell me.”
“One day I may understand why the goddess wanted an ignorant girl for her Seventy.”
“To sit on her Navy Board. I was elected to Navy two years ago because my father was a sailor who earned distinction in the Battle of Byakal-Krida. But he had been a rower in a galley, and when I knew him, he was a mere carpenter. Still is, by the way. Have you been home yet?”
“No.”
“Send someone to make inquiries first. Otherwise you may be shocked by the changes. Or more shocked by what hasn’t changed. And don’t make the mistake some Chosen make, of snatching their families up from poverty and installing them in mansions. Better just to send them regular money so they can live where they’ve always lived and lord it over their neighbors.”
Irona thought her family would much rather not remind any of their neighbors that they had a daughter among the Seventy. The Seventy collected taxes.
“Talking of mansions,” Ledacos remarked, “you need a home of your own now.”
“I know I do.” As long as she lived with Trodelat, Trodelat would try to manage her. Now her new patron was starting to do so.
“And a staff to run it. Even the most junior member of the Navy Board is expected to do some entertaining.”
Horror upon horror! Already she worried about the workload she had taken on and all the preparatory learning it would need. She was appalled to think of the labor involved in choosing a home, hiring servants, training them. She would need a majordomo to run the place, and the thought of someone like Captain Jamarko in her bed made her feel physically sick. She rose from the table and went over to the windows to stare down unseeing at the boys and girls filing by, and the new-fledged citizens running to the exit stairs.
Ledacos had followed her, for his voice came from close behind.
“Podnelbi 681 is dying. Source Water does nothing for him now. His tide will ebb before tomorrow’s dawn.”
“That’s very sad,” she muttered, not looking around. What was her patron hinting at?
“His home and all its contents revert to the Property Commission. The Sebrat House—do you know it? The commission currently has six or seven abodes it can offer you at purely nominal fees, but Podnelbi’s place is quite modest. Some of us live like emperors, as you know, in mansions of a hundred halls. Other go the opposite extreme and are too frugal to uphold the dignity of their office. But Sebrat would suit you very well.”
She knew the house, and it was certainly humble compared to most.
“I would feel like a ghoul, storming in there to loot before his corpse was cold.”
“He has two children.” Ledacos always seemed to know everything. It was a very annoying habit. “His daughter is already safely married off. His son is a trainee lawyer, I believe, and betrothed to marry the daughter of a very rich silk merchant, but of course both of those arrangements will go by the board now. Their mother is a freedwoman, Velny Lavice. The moment 681 stops breathing, she will be given two days to get out, and there will be guards on the door to make sure nothing is removed except the smock on her back. The same goes for his entire staff, about ten of them, I think. A very modest establishment.”
Trodelat had twenty.
“What are you suggesting, patron?”
“Please never call me that, 700. They will all be out in the street. I am suggesting that tomorrow morning you inform the Property Commission that you are interested in taking over Sebrat House as is. Or I can tell them for you, if you wish. I have some influence there.” He must have clients everywhere. “Then, as soon as it is practicable, you interview Velny. She would make an excellent housekeeper for you.”
The drums and trumpets continued, the disks slid away down the chute, but Irona was not seeing the choosing ceremony now. A ready-made establishment was a dazzling prospect, almost too good to be true. But she had already learned to analyze every word the clever Ledacos 692 uttered.
“How old is the son?”
“About your age, maybe.” Ledacos shrugged, implying a lack of interest in young men.
Irona swallowed. There were more hints and clues floating around this conversation than gulls around a fishing port. She had met Podnelbi’s son at social functions. He was a year or two older than she was and fabulously handsome. “Are you suggesting that I take over the son as well?”
After a pause, Ledacos said softly, “Gods forbid that I should even dream of it.”
Her heart jumped. She was not sure when sex had appeared on the agenda, but probably when he came to stand so close that she could almost feel his breath on the back of her head. It was certainly there now.
She spun around. “I was not aware that romance was part of our arrangement.”
The inquiring smile vanished. His face hardened. “Nor was I.”
“Good,” she said. “Almost the first thing my tutor told me was that sex and politics do not mix.”
“Mine told me the same thing, ten years ago.”
Nice try, though.
She nodded, hoping he would not grab her and kiss her, because she did not trust herself to resist. She would certainly not scream for rescue. Once she had been fascinated by Sklom Uroveg’s harpooner
muscles, not understanding that Sklom was stupider than the seals he slew. Ledacos’s arms were adequate, if a little on the hairy side. As were his legs.
Feeling her face flush scarlet, she turned back to the window.
“I would be very grateful if you would drop a word to the Property Commission about Sebrat House, Ledacos.”
The crowd roared, trumpets and drums …
“Already?” He joined her at the window. A boy—a barefoot child in a dirty rag—was standing on the bridge, petrified with horror. Komev 701 was striding out to greet him, seeming to grow taller with every step.
“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 yo
u 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.