Irona 700

by Dave Duncan

  The Navy Ball was the highlight of the social year, crammed with ship captains, office staff, senior navy contractors, and their respective wives or, in very rare cases, husbands. All the Seventy were there with their consorts. Even the First’s Palace could barely hold such a number, and senior Chosen had to wait in line to disembark from their litters or carrying chairs.

  There was music, but the floors were too packed for dancing, which Irona regretted. Dancing was one of the few things she could do better than almost all the rest of the Seventy. Instead of dancing there was drinking, circulating, and gossip. There was ogling, too, but there she was mostly the oglee, rarely the ogler. As the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, Vlyplatin also received his share of appraising glances due to his flawless profile, and that night he was looking even more godlike than usual in a tunic of gold samite. Youth helped, of course.

  Once Irona found herself close to Fialovi 694. “I can’t make it tomorrow until late,” he said.

  That suited her well; she had plans for the day. “Come to dinner.” It was her committee; it would meet at Sebrat House.

  He shook his head. “Love to, but it will have to be after dinner.”

  “I’ll wait up,” she promised.

  They drifted apart in the crowd. Vlyplatin did not ask; she did not tell. She never discussed business with him.

  But later she ran into Ledacos and his latest consort, who looked younger than Irona and was voluptuous in the style of gravid sea lions. He was fickle, changing mistresses frequently.

  Polite chitchat was exchanged. Then: “Did you ask her?” he demanded of Vlyplatin, without preamble.

  Vlyplatin’s answer flashed back. “She won’t tell me, sir. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

  “That would not be polite,” Ledacos said regretfully. He leaned close to Irona and whispered in her ear, “I never got a committee of my own on the Navy Board until my second term, and I was six years older than you are.”

  Evidently Fialovi had been blabbing to their mutual patron, although a topic classed as Absolute Secrecy was restricted to the members of the board, so he should not have revealed even that much.

  Delighted by Ledacos’s admission, Irona just shrugged. “You should shave your legs more often, darling.”

  Ledacos exploded in laughter and spilled his wine. He was more than slightly drunk, but probably everyone was by then. Irona was, and she had a hard day ahead. Not long after that encounter, she told Vlyplatin to take her home.

  She always took the comfortable side of chair, the one that would most often face uphill, so she was at the front as their bearers ran down the endless hills and stairs from the First’s Palace. For a while they sat in silence in the dark, listening to rain pounding on the roof, Irona tilted backward, Vlyplatin with his feet braced against her seat, his hands clasping straps to keep himself from sliding off his own bench. Vly, as she thought of him now, was incredibly attentive to her moods. If she did not speak, neither would he. If she wanted to talk, she chose the topic and he followed her lead. In fact, if Vly had a fault, it was that he was almost invisible, he so completely hid his own wishes.

  “I love that tunic. You looked very dashing.”

  “Thank you. You outshone every girl there, of course. As usual.”

  “What was it that Chosen Ledacos wanted to know and I wouldn’t tell you?”

  “Why you never wear jewels.” He spoke quite seriously, no hint of humor.

  “You never asked me that.”

  “Of course not.”

  She was pleased. She always made sure that Vly was well decorated, as befitted a Chosen’s escort. Tonight he wore gold bracelets, a jeweled belt, and the dagger she had given him on his twentieth birthday. It had been outrageously expensive, having a hilt of jade carved in the likeness of a dolphin. He was never seen without it, and she suspected he must sleep with it under his pillow.

  “What else do you get asked about me?” she asked.

  “How good you are in bed.”

  “No! Who asks that?”

  “Lots of men, even a woman or two.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “Incredible!”

  “Right answer again,” she muttered, but she spoke no more until they were home at Sebrat. Neither of them had mentioned sex since the day she offered him the job, but she had recently realized that Vly had no social life of his own. Whenever she wanted him, dawn or midnight, he was always available. Such total dedication was unheard of. Only slaves and Chosen worked like that, all day every day. It might be understandable if he was stupid or gauche, but he was certainly neither. What had she done to deserve such devotion? Given him trinkets?

  The chair reversed its tilt on the stairs up to her door, making it her turn to hang on. Then it leveled out and they were in the porte cochere at Sebrat. She rang the doorbell as Vlyplatin paid off the bearers; her night porter let her in.

  She knew that she was more than slightly tipsy. So was Vly, likely, but sober enough to catch her elbow and steady her when she stumbled on the stairs. She pulled free of his grip when he seemed to want to hang on, and she was careful not to stumble again before they reached her bedroom door—where his duties ended, as she had told him at the beginning. He had never questioned or suggested otherwise. Always, it was there that he bade her good night and handed her the lantern.

  Tonight was different. She was the youngest Chosen ever to serve on the Navy Board, she had been granted a committee in her first term, outperforming her patron. Such a day should end with a fanfare, a celebration, a breaking of rules. She surprised herself by ignoring the lantern and holding the door wide. Vly followed her in and set the lantern down on a table so he would have both hands free.

  All he said was, “I have been going crazy, waiting for this to happen.” That was as close as she had ever heard him come to complaining.

  “Make it happen.” She raised her lips to be kissed.

  Life was suddenly full of surprises. She was amazed to learn in the embrace that he had an erection already, that the rest of his body was equally rock-hard, that kissing involved much more than lips, that having all the breath squeezed out of her was as enjoyable as being undressed in an indecent frenzy, that whole-body contact was heavenly, that a man could taste as nice as he smelled, that a tongue on nipples produced fantastic sensations all over, that a man without fuzz on his arms might have fur on his chest, that rough and tumble reverted to gentle, even delicate, when they got to the tricky part requiring insertion of part of the second party into part of the first party, which didn’t hurt nearly as much as she had feared … slow and languid thrusting, becoming stronger, longer, fiercer, and finally a mad combined hammering like mating walruses. Then Vlyplatin collapsed on top of her.

  Irona wailed. “Don’t stop!”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled into the space between her breasts. “Couldn’t hold back any longer. Wait until next time.” He did have a wonderful growl; in this position she could feel it as well as hear it.

  Now she knew why people worshipped Craver, the mad god.

  “Who says there will be a next time?”

  “I do. Soon.”

  Another surprise there: that an escort could be diffident, attentive, and obedient in public, but insistent, tyrannical, and irresistible in bed. Not that anyone seriously tried to resist.

  Perhaps because she had grown up in a chicken coop, Irona disliked fluttering around like a trapped swallow in Sebrat’s cavernous halls. Her favorite room, where she studied reports and ate most of her meals, was a small dressing room next to her bedroom, which she had converted into an office. It shared the ballroom’s God’s-eye view of the city, was easily heated in winter, and had windows on two sides to provide cross ventilation in summer. Usually she left the door open; when it was closed, she was not to be disturbed except for a Chosen in person or a courier f
rom the Palace.

  It was her custom to eat her morning snack there, and to let Vlyplatin join her, so she could give him instructions for the day. That day he arrived a little later than usual and his smile seemed more beautiful than ever. But he closed the door.

  “Open it!” she said.

  He shook his head diffidently and came to sit at the table. “In a moment.”

  “I have no intention of acknowledging you as a gigolo. That would demean both of—”

  “I agree. Have you ever seen one of these?”

  On his palm lay a small medallion bearing a bas-relief of a face, a hideous face, apparently carved from some sort of brown stone.

  “Ugh! No! Put it away. It’s hideous.”

  “Of course. It’s from Eldritch.”

  “Are you crazy? A fix? You must know what they do to people who own such things.”

  He shrugged. “Are you going to give me a son or a daughter? Have you decided?”

  “I have no intention—” Oh, Goddess! It might already be too late for intentions.

  “How many children did your mother have?” he asked.

  Far too many. If his children were as beautiful as he was …

  “Mine had only two,” he said. “Soon after doing what we did last night, no more than half a day, you put this under your tongue and touch your toes three times. Then you don’t conceive. Take it.”

  She just stared at the horrible thing as if it had petrified her.

  Vly said, “Every rich man’s wife in Benign owns something like this.”

  She wondered where he had gotten it. Almost certainly from his mother. Mustn’t ask. She took it. The medallion felt cold and soapy, like lead. “Under my tongue?”

  “Be careful! Watch you don’t choke on it, because I’m told it gets very slippery. There are always dangers to using anything like this.”

  Irona did as he had told her and quickly spat the horrible thing out into her hand.

  “You’d better keep it,” he said, “if you’re going to let me make love to you very often, as I hope you will. If you don’t, I shall jump off a cliff.”

  “That will not be necessary. Thank you for the gift. Now open the door.”

  He did and returned to join her as if the earlier conversation had never happened. “Another terrible day, ma’am.”

  The rain was beating on the windows, and most of the city was hidden by fog. She did not comment, but it was an ideal day for what she planned. Again she felt the favor of the goddess.

  Vly poured himself some water and flavored it with wine. “Orders, ma’am?” There was not a trace of a lover’s twinkle in his eye now. He was a human octopus, coloring himself to match his background. At times in the night he had seemed to have eight hands, too. She wanted to drag him off to bed right away, but she mustn’t.

  “Order up a sedan chair for us. I want to go to the New Customs House, or near there. Just you and me. No escort.”

  His eyebrows shot up. He had beautiful eyebrows.

  “Wear your sword, though,” she said. “And a heavy cloak. From there we’ll walk.”

  “To?”

  “Brackish.”

  He did not question, just pursed his lips. He had beautiful—Goddess! She must stop behaving like a mawkish child bride. Craver had stolen her wits.

  “In secret,” she said. “As soon as you have finished eating.”

  He rose, clutching his bread roll. “I can eat and walk. By the way, Mother was asking if she can have the broken floor tiles in the hall repaired.”

  “Of course she may. Last night …”

  He paused, eyebrows raised again.

  “Was not your first time,” she finished limply. She should not ask.

  He smiled. “I was given a few lessons when I was younger.”

  “You can teach me everything you know. But, Vly—”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Always rumple your bed. I don’t want the servants to know.”

  He looked at her pityingly. “They’ve known for months. I mean they’ve assumed it for months. I refuse to discuss it, but I am so gorgeous that they can’t believe you could ever refuse me.”

  “Oh, you … ! Go!”

  “And I don’t abuse the slaves, so obviously—”

  “Go, I said!”

  Chuckling, he strode off to dispatch a slave runner.

  He was gorgeous, and she was happy to hear that he had not been abusing the slave girls. Oddly, she believed him on that.

  Still gulping the last of breakfast, she went to the strong room door near the fireplace. The keys lived in a box on the mantel—no point in hiding the keys, the Property Commission’s flunky had said when instructing Irona in the strong room’s operation, because then a burglar might try an ax instead. There were ten keys and ten keyholes, but you couldn’t guess which key went in which lock, or which way to turn them, or even which needed to be unlocked. If you made a mistake, you locked instead of unlocking and finished up no better off than when you started.

  The door opened inward, so its hinges were not exposed and vulnerable to attack, but behind all those safeguards, the strong room held little except dust, for Irona had long since returned all Podnelbi 681’s jewels and other finery to the commission. She kept nothing in there except state documents and gold. She chose a bag holding ten whales, equal to a thousand dolphins, a sizable fortune. It was heavy, but Vlyplatin could carry it for her with some of those muscles she had so much admired in the night.

  Locking the strong room was as tricky as unlocking it.

  She rang for a slave to remove the remains of breakfast.

  Irona was going to veer dangerously close to breaking the decree of Absolute Secrecy that Seven Knipry had laid upon the Irona Committee, but she had begun her inquiries before he issued it. A few days earlier she had asked the Geographical Section for a list of all the harbormasters on the island. Her assigned office in the First’s Palace was a tiny nook, up in the attics where the most junior Chosen nested. It was furnished with a small table and one chair and illuminated by a single tiny window. The list was brought there by a young clerk with ugly buckteeth and ears as widespread as a cormorant’s wings. He was undernourished, and his tunic looked like burlap. She thanked him and laid two silver dolphin coins on the table. He stared at them as if he had no idea what they were. His official monthly income was probably a few copper fish.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Sazen Hostin, ma’am.”

  “I require some additional information, which may not be so easy to obtain.”

  “What’s that, ma’am?” he asked warily. His job and even his neck might be on the line now.

  “The outport of Brackish: the names of the guards, both day and night guards, their wives’ names, the harbormaster’s wife’s name. …” She paused.

  “No more than that, ma’am?”

  She was pleased to learn that he was smart enough to know she was offering too high a price for what was close to public information.

  “Plus the names of all the Section’s informants there and a list of the evildoers they have reported in the last five years.”

  Again he said, “No more than that, ma’am?” But now he was back to staring at the coins.

  “Ten more on delivery, and who knows what other needs I may have later.”

  “Ma’am.” Sazen made the money disappear.

  “Soon,” Irona added.

  He smiled those awful teeth at her and shuffled out the door.

  The Geographical Section was the secret police, whose tentacles spread throughout the Empire. It reported only to the Seven, not to rank-and-file Chosen like Irona. Sazen Hostin might earn more by turning her in than by taking her money, but her attempt to bribe him risked only a reprimand and exclusion from well-paying jobs for a few year
s. A citizen would be charged with treason.

  Sazen gave her the list she wanted the next morning. She paid him the rest of his bribe.

  He smiled—oh, those vile teeth! “Very generous of you, ma’am. My mother mends clothes in the market outside the Source of Chiala, a blue stall. If a great lady such as yourself sent something to be mended, she would certainly notice.”

  “And if she found anything valuable in a pocket, you would get it?”

  “By nightfall, ma’am. Certainly.”

  Irona wondered how many other clients the young scoundrel served.

  Even on a fine day, the walk from the Customs House to Brackish was a long trek. The downpour made it seem much longer, but only in such weather could Irona go muffled in her cloak of sea otter fur and thus keep her collar hidden. Vlyplatin was an anonymous pillar of sealskin plodding at her side, burdened with both his sword and the moneybag. He was fortunate to own stout boots. She had never thought to acquire any, but now intended to do so at the first possible opportunity.

  There was almost no one else outdoors, and she had no fear of being recognized. The identity of the person she spoke with in Brackish would depend on who happened to be home on this dreary winter day. According to Sazen, none of the Republic’s senior officers in Brackish had changed since her time—harbormaster, night guard captain, and so on. Harbormaster Dalb Broskev was still married to the same iron-jawed woman Irona remembered. Irona had not been in the least surprised to learn that one of the Geographical Section’s senior snoops in Brackish was that same Beigas Broskev. The Broskevs lived in the grandest house in Brackish, and that was where Irona went first, with Vlyplatin at her side.

  Drenched and half frozen, she halted to stare, horrified at how pathetic it seemed to her now, just one story and an attic, fronting right on the street, probably no more than four rooms in all. It was larger and better maintained than its neighbors, but that was all one could say of it. Suddenly she dithered close to panic at what she was about to do.