by Tim Stretton
“Larien, if I am a courtier, I hardly know where to begin with my compliments. You are lovely beyond compare.”
She kissed him on the cheek, and Mirko caught the scent of a subtle sweet perfume. “I find simple praise the most convincing,” she smiled. “I know what I look like — what woman doesn’t — and it’s enough to know you appreciate the effect.”
“Oh, I certainly appreciate it,” said Mirko with a smile.
He was saved from any further effusions by the blast of a herald’s horn.
“Make way for the Elector Lord Bartazan!”
Bartazan was descending the stairs from his apartments, with the Lady Inuela on his arm. He was attired entirely in the Azure, even down to his gloves, while Inuela was simply but richly dressed in a flowing white dress with Azure favours. Mirko bowed as they approached, Bartazan responding with a measured courtesy; he suspected that Bartazan was not fully reconciled to his presence on such a significant day. The Lady Inuela accepted Mirko’s bow with a frosty courtesy.
“Who are the others?” whispered Mirko to Larien as the rest of the party made their way down the staircase.
“That’s Inuela’s sister Ysabel and her husband Calaran, with their son Balaran. Calaran is the cousin of the Elector Malanaz.”
Ysabel strongly resembled her sister, although she was several years younger with eyes less narrowed in spite. Calaran had the look of well-bred stupidity Mirko had noticed in other Electors’ family connections, while Balaran was at the age where acne was his most noteworthy feature. Mirko began to realise why his invitation had caused such displeasure with Bartazan; no doubt his presence would considerably lower the cachet of the party.
Attended by various liverymen the group made its way back out to the courtyard, where a number of open-topped carriages awaited. Bartazan and Inuela were assisted into the first, drawn by four striders and with wheels six feet high to ensure the masses had an adequate view of them. Calaran’s family were assigned the second carriage, smaller but still impressive, while Larien and Mirko clambered aboard the last with the minimum of ceremony. The coachman inclined his head as he positioned himself at the front of the vehicle, and Mirko grinned back at him. He might as well enjoy the occasion.
The route took them through the Old Town, where the crowds seemed more inclined to cheer than jeer, although in some quarters the balance was close. Mirko himself attracted a certain number of ribald comments which, following Larien’s example, he affected not to notice. Bartazan liberally distributed handfuls of silver coins where the crowds were deepest, to contemptuous clucking from Larien.
“Why does he do that?” asked Mirko. “None of these people can vote for him.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Larien. “Given a free vote, there is no way at all Bartazan would get twenty-six Electors’ votes; but there are any number of Electors who will be swayed by the mob. Many many years ago now, two or three hundred, the Electors chose Gilard Gilardson of House Sey for Peremptor; the people had bayed for Kattenkoop: the mob ran wild, Gilardson was torn limb from limb, and several Electors were lynched. It’s never happened before or since; but no Elector will ever forget it.”
“Kattenkoop? Any relation to Drallenkoop?”
“Yes, he was the Elector for House Drall at the time. There was another election, and of course Kattenkoop won. It would have been better if he hadn’t; it was his conduct in office which has made House Drall unelectable ever since. He disregarded our old liberties and suppressed all opposition.”
“Hardly unusual conduct for a Peremptor, I’d have thought.”
Larien laughed, her cheeks glowing in the sea breeze.
“No, you’re right. More damaging were the rumours that he was dabbling in the Old Craft. Who knows whether he was or not? I find it unlikely myself. Anyway, he was hounded from office, and lucky to escape with his life: there is no worse crime in Paladria. No Drall has stood for Peremptor since.”
“Paladrian politics is certainly a bloody business.”
“It will be if my uncle wins — that you can be sure of.”
Moving out from the Old Town, the carriages moved along the Esplanade towards Coverciano; this was the region where gentlefolk lived, and crowds were discouraged. Mirko looked out into the bay; several galleys were busy practising for The Sorcerers, now only three days away. He recognised the long pennon of Morvellos Devil, and saw Animaxian’s Glory drilling herself in smart turns; the easy style of Inisse at the helm was easily recognisable to the seasoned observer.
Larien caught the direction of his attention. Gently touching his knee, she asked: “Do you wish you were out there?”
“Under the circumstances, no,” he smiled. “One day’s practice won’t make any difference — and Liudas will be at the Ball anyway. Dragonchaser can’t practise either, if Drallenkoop is here.”
Coverciano loomed into view, the brilliantly whitewashed walls reflecting the bright mid-afternoon sun. There was a queue of carriages awaiting admittance at the gates, and Bartazan had to wait his turn like the rest. Nearby Mirko saw the carriage of Koopendrall, gleaming in gold and scarlet; the four-seater also included Drallenkoop and his companion, a young woman Larien dismissively referred to “that flighty Allara, supposedly the Elector Tychonod’s daughter, although with a mother like that it’s impossible to be certain.”
Mirko raised a hand in salute to Drallenkoop, and Dragonchaser’s master responded in kind, adding in a bow to Larien; she responded with a glare which also took in Allara.
As they moved forward they drew level with the green open carriage of the Elector Nool Ipolitas, in which Liudas was also seated, as befitted an Elector’s son. Liudas had outdone himself in finery, his otherwise sober costume appearing to have peacock feathers sprouting from each shoulder. Mirko could not repress a smirk, while Larien called out a compliment which Liudas returned in kind.
At last the Bartazan carriages reached the head of the queue. The footmen took them away while the dignitaries disembarked. The courtyard was heavily populated with Peremptor’s Guards, conspicuous in their black uniforms and four-cornered hats.
“My Lord Bartazan? This way, if you please.”
The party was escorted into the giant formal ballroom, which had not been used on the previous occasion he had visited Coverciano. Footmen freely distributed Televen wine and baked quails’ eggs as the assembled throng took their seats. Mirko found the occasion lacking in stimulation and applied himself early to the wine. The ballroom was undoubtedly impressive, the ceiling richly decorated with scenes in noble colours, the seats upholstered in Peremptor’s purple, and even the finger bowls adorned with rubies; but Mirko was eager for dinner to begin.
At last everyone was seated. Mirko looked around to see who he could recognise. Drallenkoop’s party was largely out of sight at the other side of the hall; Nool Ipolitas and Liudas were nearby, and Mirko recognised various of the Electors he had seen at Formello soirées.
There was a long blast from a herald’s horn, and the chatter around the room ceased.
“All stand to mark the arrival of the Peremptor of Paladria, the August Dignity Giedrus of House Luz!”
Mirko stood with the others as a group of persons swept into the room; he looked with curiosity at Giedrus, a tall figure younger than he had expected. His robes were purple trimmed with white. His lady and children followed at a respectful distance, and various high officers from the Peremptor’s Guard made up the party. Mirko noticed Vaidmantas standing towards the rear of the group.
Giedrus paused at his seat. Stretching out his arms, he said:
“Dear guests! I welcome you to Coverciano for this most important of days. Please, be seated and enjoy the hospitality we have prepared for you. After we have satiated our appetites, we will turn our attention to the more serious business: Nominations for the August Office!”
With this Giedrus took his seat, and footmen appeared from various alcoves to serve the first course, a spicy soup laden with croutons
. Bartazan seemed in a good humour.
“Well, Captain? How do you find Coverciano?”
“Highly impressive, my lord. It fully reflects the dignity of the Peremptor’s office.”
Bartazan nodded. “Indeed it does; and since I intend it for my own residence, I find it most suitable. After the Nominations we will repair to the gardens, which are also praiseworthy.”
Mirko forbore from observing that he had been to Coverciano before; no doubt Bartazan’s thoughts were elevated by his forthcoming nomination. He returned to his soup, before turning his attention to the roast boar garnished with fennel, with potatoes and shallots which formed the basis of the main course. The salad of cold fowl which followed also proved acceptable, and by the time the mango and kiwano sherbet dessert came around, Mirko enjoyed a pleasant feeling of satiety. The conversation was not, by and large, of a level of stimulation sufficient to stave off post-prandial stupor: Larien contented herself with an occasional private smile, and looking around the other tables; Calaran’s discourse marked him as, if anything, even less intelligent than his appearance, while his wife wisely kept her own counsel. Young Balaran scowled his way through all four courses, making occasional peevish complaints to his mother. The Lady Inuela kept up a stream of polished inanity which Mirko judged essential in helping such events to pass off smoothly.
Mirko found the penultimate course of horse-chestnuts, shelled and dipped in honey and cinnamon, a little cloying for his palate. Larien, observing his lack of enthusiasm, leaned across and took one from his plate.
“Do you mind?” she asked. “These are my particular favourites.”
Mirko smiled. “Be my guest. I’m saving room for the sea-slug.”
Larien popped the chestnut in whole, her eyes immediately watering from the heat of the honey. “You’d think I’d have learned at my age,” she laughed, fanning her mouth and coughing. “Here, let me try with another.”
CHAPTER 16
B
y the end of the final course – the marinated sea-slug had been sweetened to perfection – Mirko was following Larien’s example and scrutinising the tables around him. The other guests did not appear to be in riotous spirits either, with the exception of one table in the far corner, which on closer inspection proved to be Koopendrall’s. Mirko thought that ‘N’ would be interested to hear more details of the event, and wandered off towards the privy past Koopendrall’s table. On his way back, to his astonishment, he saw not just Koopendrall, Drallenkoop and their companions, but the animated figure of ‘N’ herself. What conceivable reason could ‘N’ have for being Koopendrall’s guest at the Nominations Ball?
Stumbling over the carpet in his surprise, he attracted the attention of Drallenkoop.
“Watch out, Ascalon! This Televen is strong stuff!”
Mirko affected a sheepish grin and returned to his seat as quickly as he could. His puzzlement was rapidly increasing. ‘N’ had always appeared to be a gentlewoman: could it be that she was a member of House Drall? The idea was not inherently ludicrous; and indeed would explain why she was employing him to spy on Bartazan. If his supposition were correct, it would mean he too was working for Drallenkoop — or at least Koopendrall.
Larien leaned across and touched his hand. “Are you all right?”
Mirko roused himself. “Yes — just a little too much wine. But listen — can you see the Drall table from here?”
“Just. Why?”
“I saw someone I recognised at it. A woman, short, fairish hair, dark eyes, sort of attractive?”
“ ‘Sort of’?”
“You know what I mean. Do you know who she is?”
“It sounds to me like Catzendralle — she’s some sort of eccentric relation, Koopendrall’s cousin or second cousin or some such. How do you know her?”
“I don’t — I’ve just seen her somewhere before, maybe a regatta. It’s not a matter of any significance.”
Larien smiled and rearranged a lock of hair which had escaped its binding.
“It’s significant when my escort is noticing other women. I can’t see the interest — ‘sort of attractive’ is a generous assessment, and Koopendrall has obviously given her up as unmarriageable or she wouldn’t be a spinster at her age. I seem to recall she has a past, anyway …”
“I didn’t ask for a character assassination,” said Mirko with asperity. “I simply wondered who she was. Listen, the speeches are about to start.”
This fortunate break seemed to take Larien’s attention elsewhere. As Giedrus stood up, a footman discreetly slipped a note to Mirko: “From my Lord Koopendrall’s table, sir.” Mirko looked at the front: a single ‘G’ on the front marked it as ‘N’s work. Quickly breaking the seal, he registered the short message:
Meet me in the Orange Grove immediately after the nominations. Even by your standards this represents unsatisfactory conduct.
‘N’
Sighing, Mirko folded the note away in his coat, and reattached his attention to Giedrus.
“Lords and ladies, may I please have your attention! My second five-year term as Peremptor is coming to an end. It is not for me to assess the credit I have brought to the office during my tenure; the verdict on this score will of course be delivered by my brother Electors. I will not list the boons of peace and prosperity which have attended Paladria while I have been Peremptor, or the liberties I have restored. Let us instead consider for a moment the history of the August Office, and the men who have filled it with distinction.”
Mirko leaned across to Larien. “How long does this normally last?”
“Don’t worry — Giedrus doesn’t waste words.”
The Peremptor paused a moment to drink deeply of his goblet.
“The first Peremptor was of course my ancestor Pertinax Luz, chosen by his peers to root the Old Craft out of Paladria for good. In this he succeeded, for the Old Craft has never returned; Pertinax’s peers became the first Electors, and Pertinax wisely decreed that the August Office should ever more be selected from among this group by its members. Pertinax was not greedy for office, and the tradition of service to the common weal has ever after been a prime requisite for candidates for Peremptor. Other Electors from among the Luz have also served the people in this way; Pertinax the Second, who negotiated a treaty of friendship with Garganet; Romualdo of the Low Taxes; Verizon the Just, who codified our ancient laws. These are the men whose blood flows in my veins, men of force and vigour, humility and dignity. In my own way I have tried to follow their example.
“But never let it be said I lust for power. If a man of proven integrity, capacity and energy should step forward from among the Electors, and announce himself willing to take on the burden, I will relinquish the August Office without demur. My brothers, I do not know who among you intends to serve Paladria; but look into your hearts, to find that integrity, capacity and energy: if you do not find them, stand aside and allow a worthier man to serve.”
Larien whispered to Mirko: “See how smooth he is: the ‘integrity’ is intended to bring Bartazan’s arraignment to mind.”
Mirko agreed that Giedrus appeared to embody precisely the qualities of hypocrisy, plausibility and ruthlessness necessary in a successful ruler; Bartazan was altogether a less polished gem.
“It remains only to say that, since I cannot be assured that a more fitting candidate will indeed step forward, I once more declare my readiness to serve the people of Paladria in the capacity I have filled for the past ten years. Electors, I submit to your judgement!”
There was a ripple of applause around the room, genuinely enthusiastic in some cases, desultory in others, and on a few tables — such as Mirko’s — stony silence.
“I will move now to the question of Nomination. Brothers, do you propose a candidate?”
The Elector Nool Ipolitas rose portentously from his seat.
“Your Dignity, it would not be healthy for the state of Paladria were you to be returned, unopposed, to the August Office, since this would pr
ovide no validation for your no doubt progressive programmes. In this spirit, may I propose the Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House?”
Bartazan inclined his head towards Ipolitas.
“I will endorse this nomination!” “And I!”
In a matter of seconds, Bartazan had his five nominations. Giedrus called to him in a full voice:
“My Lord Bartazan, Ilkmeister of Bartazan House: your peers have nominated you for Election, for a third and final time. What answer do you give them?”
Slowly Bartazan rose from his seat and looked around the room.
“Your Dignity, my brother Electors! I am unworthy of the honour you have bestowed upon me,” he said, holding up his hands against the expected storm of protest, “no, my brothers, this is not simple rhetoric! Twice in the past, I have allowed my flag to climb the Electoral Pole: on both occasions, the claims of the noble Giedrus have been preferred. The opinions of the Electors are clear and concise: Lord Giedrus is the man for the August Office.
“In allowing my name to go forward a third time, I of course engage in a considerable risk, since an Elector defeated three times is debarred permanently from the August Office. I should in all prudence withdraw my candidature against a time when the noble Giedrus has tired of his heavy responsibilities. But my sense of what is due to the spirit of Paladria is strong. No-one else volunteers to stand against a man with a record as impressive as my lord Giedrus’; and as the sage Nool Ipolitas reminds us, for Giedrus to be returned unopposed denies him the full endorsement his magnificent achievements deserve. In this spirit, I accept my nomination, in the absence of another candidate.”
From the floor came a cry: “I nominate the Elector Koopendrall!”
Heads turned to identify the miscreant. It was the Elector Mecislovas of House Annix, something of an eccentric personality, known for his animosity to Bartazan. Koopendrall permitted himself a wintry grin, his chances of nomination, let alone election, negligible.