Irona 700 (20 page)

Irona turned back to her own work.

The tablet on top said:

You gave me a promise. You are forgetting how grateful you were. I told you I might ask a favor in return some day, and you said you would do anything I asked. “Anything” was the word you used.

Whatever did that mean? Irona had no memory of writing it, and it wasn't in her handwriting.

The report she ultimately sent to the Seven was cautiously optimistic. Already the fortress was a functional military base again. The trogs had been driven away, excepting a few who had refused to go and had been slaughtered and fed to the giant eels of the delta. After Svinhofdarhrauk had been burned, bones had been found in the ashes. While some trogs' bones were hard to distinguish from human, others were so deformed that their origin was obvious; trogs' teeth were more like dogs' or pigs', but some skulls and jawbones were definitely human. Weapons and fragments of armor had been recovered, also, so marines had certainly died on the islet. Vly's sword had been a standard issue, without distinguishing marks.

She mentioned her theory that there had been no treason in Vult, only folly, which Maleficence had exploited. She suggested that dealers received their wares for free and profiteering started downstream. She recommended that the Geographical Section investigate the traders who brought in the station's supplies from Fueguino. While she had authority to do that herself, she could not turn up there in a galley full of marines without alerting the culprits, if any.

She wrote to Velny Lavice, too, and that sad news also went south on
Sea Death
.

About a week after the galley left, Irona awoke one morning certain that she was pregnant. It was far too early to tell by most women's standards, but her mother had always known, and Irona had no doubts. Of course she had wondered ever since the night Vly died whether that had been the whole purpose of that brutal attack. Was she carrying her dead lover's child or a monster? The priests claimed that maleficent creations could not themselves create life. Time would tell in this case.

Two days after that, while Irona and Sazen were reviewing tablets in her office, Daun Bukit appeared with word that the commander requested the governor's presence in the reception hall. Could be a breakthrough, he said. Without bothering to wrap up in a cloak, Irona dodged out one door and in the next, doubled over against the wind and rain; Daun and Sazen came scampering at her heels.

Quebrada Bericha was there already, looking ominously pleased with himself. So was the bosun of
Sea Dragon
, plus two dozen of his oar pullers, looking even more so. The marines were grouped in fours, and each group contained a prisoner, hands bound and mouth stuffed with rags: four men and two youths. Their expressions varied from defiant to terrified, and it must be hard to feel otherwise in such circumstances.

“Pursuant to your instructions, ma'am,” the commander boomed, “the delta has been kept under close surveillance. Yesterday a red rag that had been tied to driftwood above high-water mark at the mouth of a minor channel was observed, ma'am. The vicinity was then explored and a heap of eight bulging bags was discovered stacked on the eastern bank. This location was staked out, and this morning, a fishing smack was observed approaching under cover of a rainsquall. The galley was summoned and these individuals were apprehended while loading the bags aboard. Upon questioning, the suspects refused to say who they were or where they came from, ma'am.”

This, indeed, was a breakthrough! Caught red-handed!

“Very good work, Commander! There will be bonuses for all concerned. Where are the bags?”

“Still in the fishing boat, ma'am. Eight bags. One of them moves a bit; must be something 'live in it.”

“And any sign of gold or silver for payment?”

“None at all, ma'am.” Bericha had hesitated a bit there. It would be asking a lot of common seamen to turn in the prisoners, the loot,
and
the money, if any had been found. Even two out of three was good.

Irona looked over the prisoners and chose the hairiest. “Remove his gag! Now, you, what's your name?”

The result was a flood of gibberish, of which she understood about one word in four.

“We think that's meant to be Benesh with a Genodesan accent,” the bosun said. “He won't speak good Benesh, but he understands it well enough. I told him I was going to stuff a marline spike up his … um, nose, ma'am, and he understood me well 'nuff.”

“He said they're all honest fisherman and they come into the delta for catfish.” The quiet voice belonged to Daun Bukit. He had served on the Genodesan galley
Swiftest
.

More gibberish. “And the bags were just flotsam they found, washed up by the waves.”

“Crab shit,” said the bosun. “Begging your pardon, ma'am. No waves there. And they were well above high-water mark.”

“They will have to be interrogated separately,” Irona declared. Her stomach cringed at the implications of what she was saying. She looked apologetically at her aide. “Daun, since you can understand them, will you head up the inquisition?”

“Yes, ma'am.” No hesitation. “If Citizen Hostin will advise me on technique?” He looked to Sazen, formerly of the Geographical Section.

“Happy to, ma'am,” Sazen said. “Quick or slow?”

“What's the difference?”

“About a month. Three days for the quick way, but the damage is permanent.” The victims were listening, of course. The softening up had begun.

“It's getting late in the shipping season. Do it the quick way.”

“General,” Bukit said, “have I your permission to call for volunteer torturers?”

Hands shot up all over.
It makes you want to be evil.

Three days later, as Irona was nibbling her normal breakfast of black bread and watered wine, her team returned, Daun and Sazen. She had not seen them since they went off with the prisoners. In fact, she had hardly seen anyone except the marines repairing the stonework on the summit.

Daun and Sazen were both unshaven, red eyed, and haggard, but they could not have slept much while conducting six interrogations at once and maintaining pressure on the victims.

“Guilty,” Daun said, handing her some tablets. “All six gulls singing like canaries.”

“From the same songbook,” Sazen added. “Naming names and placing places.”

“Lots of names!”

“They don't know what's in the bags. Were warned not to open them. They all agreed on that much right at the start! They come every full moon, and they're paid ten dolphins per bag on delivery.”

So whatever inside was much more than old clothes.

Irona said, “Very well done! One of the galleys will have to rush these statements straight back to Benign.” Quebrada Bericha would be outraged at losing half his force. Why should that worry her? “Are the prisoners fit to travel?”

Daun shook his head.

“Gangrene setting in already,” Sazen murmured sadly. “Internal bleeding … You know how it is.”

So Irona would have to hang six dying men and confiscate their boat. She had already burned the evidence, as too dangerous to keep. “Very well done,” she repeated. “You both look like you have some sleep to catch up on.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Sazen said.

Daun muttered, “That's going to be another problem.”

With the possible exception of the penal island of Maasok, Vult must be the worst place in the Empire to live. For Irona, in her aerie atop the rock, the wind never stopped, howling in every pitch and discord, speaking with the voice of every bird or beast. When the clouds weren't pouring down rain, they threw hail, or sleet, or snow. Thunder and lightning came with all those, and clear sky could be any color except blue. Conditions within the rock were no more cheerful, for the rock itself seemed to speak as the wind boomed through the tunnels, and the constant
scritch-scritch
of the worms drove some men to distraction.

Irona never went anywhere without Vly's jade-handled dagger, because she was always convinced that there was someone close behind her. She thought this was her own personal weakness, but a chance remark from Daun led her to question him about it, then others, and it seemed that everyone felt it. No matter how much Quebrada Bericha had the troops sweep and scrub—even when every corner of the entire base was spotless—that one spiteful taint of Maleficence lingered. You were never alone.

Despite that, Daun insisted that conditions were much better now than they had been under Governor Zajic. Bericha's strict discipline, his rigid standards of hygiene and order, and the capture of the smugglers had all improved morale enormously; the men now felt that they were doing well and keeping Maleficence at bay.

Soon there were two of Irona. Someone kept kicking her from the inside. A strong kicker meant a boy, her mother had insisted, and she should certainly have known. Apart from that, Irona's pregnancy went smoothly. She was never nauseated. Her only complaints were minor back pains.

Vult could boast of one small advantage, its beaches. Bathing in the delta was suicide, but out where the surf rolled in on clean sand, even a brief dip was exhilarating. The sea was cold, but it never froze. Bericha decreed that every man must wash all over at least once every two days, either in the sea or in a good downpour, and most men's preference was for both, to wrestle with the surf and then rinse off the salt. Irona herself enjoyed the sea until her balance became uncertain, but rain was never in short supply. She was convinced that insistence on cleanliness helped keep Maleficence away.

By the time the winter storms were tapering off, Sazen, Bukit, and the commander were begging Irona to bring in a midwife from Fueguino. She refused, fearing that fixers in the town might seek a chance to strike at her, for she was the only person in Vult who might have need of such services. When the time came, she bolted the door and delivered the child herself.

She had watched her mother give birth many times, and it had seemed easy. She had underestimated the travail of a first-time delivery. A night of fear and pain gave way to a day of agony, but as the second night dawned, the wailing of the storm was joined by the howls of a large and loud boy. Fittingly, she cut the cord with Vly's dagger.

A second anonymous message arrived at the same time, but this one was more easily explained. When Irona was cleaning up, she found the word
Podakan
written in blood on the floor beside her pallet. It was traditional in Benign to name a firstborn son after his grandfathers, in this case Podnelbi 681 and Akanagure Matrinko. Irona had considered the Podakan combination, of course, but had decided on Akanelbi. She might have written the other name on the floor in her travail, although she did not recall doing so and she would have had to shape the letters upside down. It wasn't her handwriting, either, but she knew whose it had been. She looked down at the little red-faced scrap asleep in his basket.

“Forget what I just told you, son,” she said. “Your name is Podakan.”

The Year 711

Q
uebrada Bericha and his men were relieved around Midsummer, having completed their one-year term. In the report that Irona sent back to Benign with them, she suggested that the tours of duty were too long. They had been established two centuries ago, but newer galleys were swifter and more seaworthy. She suggested that governors should serve a single year and garrisons only six months, with relief in spring and fall. If Vult were regarded as a hardship posting, instead of a penal one, it might be better served. She added that men with better motivation and briefer exposure would be less likely to succumb to Maleficence.

The new commander was Mandalagan Furnas, a jovial, quick-witted young man, and a big improvement on Bericha. The dispatches he brought informed her that both former governors had died, Zajic on the voyage home and Redkev soon after his arrest. Sazen suggested that they had been poisoned years ago and been kept alive since by regular supplies of antidote, which had been cut off as soon as their involvement with the dealers was compromised. As usual, what he said made sense. She was amused to learn that Ledacos 692 had failed to win his coveted election to the Seven, being defeated by Obnosa 658, who had finally achieved her lifelong ambition.

At times Irona longed for some female company, but Podakan took up so much of her life that she had hardly had time to attend to her minimal gubernatorial duties.

Spring came early, more welcome than ever it was in Benign, and Irona could start looking forward to her return.

Podakan was growing fast and no one could deny that he had inherited his father's good looks, but also much of Grandfather Akanagure's vicious temper. On the very day that Podakan took his first bipedal steps, Daun Bukit put his head around the door to announce that a war galley was in sight.

“Flying the Benesh flag!” he added with a grin. He, too, would be heading home now, after almost three years. The garrison had not expected their relief yet, for midsummer was still a couple of months away. Clearly the Seventy had changed the schedule, and therefore had adopted at least some of Irona's suggestions.

The weather was so fine for once that she dared to sit outside her quarters to await her replacement, watching Podakan amuse himself in the sandbox the men had built for him. Her son had only two tricks: he was either so soundly asleep that an earthquake wouldn't waken him, or he was a whirlwind of noisy activity. And now he was only days away from proper walking! How by the goddess was she ever going to control him on the galley going home without putting a chain on his ankle?

Then a man in a sea-green tunic and jade collar emerged from the guardhouse and she learned that her replacement was Minasguil 697. He was saturnine, cheerless, and rather friendless, much given to sarcasm. A Ledacos client, she recalled, but she couldn't attribute his posting to Vult to a lack of popularity without condemning herself.

They went to meet each other, hands outstretched and hypocritical smiles firmly in place. They discussed everything except politics. She was not going to seek gossip from Minasguil, and he did not volunteer any.

The next day, Irona and Podakan sailed away on
Sea Dragon
. As she watched the rock dwindle behind her, she reflected that if she never saw it again, that would still be much too soon.

The weather was capricious on the voyage home, but as
Sea Dragon
left Vyada Kun, the winds dropped and the sky turned blue. Irona told Furnas she wished to visit Kadowan Island. It was a long detour, but the crew was willing to do anything she wanted, for she had shortened their stint in Vult. When she reached the ill-reputed and uninhabited island, the sea was as smooth as a puddle, so Caprice must favor what her Chosen had in mind.
Sea Dragon
was able to beach. Irona went exploring with a small keg and a hammer that she had brought along just in case. After half an hour, she had completed her task, and two strong marines carried the keg back to the ship for her. Master and crew both assumed she was crazy, but whatever this Chosen wanted was divine command for them. Irona 700 wasn't quite sure how she did it, but she knew she had a remarkable ability to inspire men.

They were east of Genodesa when a westerly blew in. The crew could not row in the swell, so Furnas could only raise sail and run before the storm. For a couple of days, they bore down on a lee shore with their prospects looking very grim indeed. Fortunately, the storm died before they did, and they found shelter in the estuary of the Tombe River. Needing repairs,
Sea Dragon
went on to Tombe itself, where the work could be done. Irona and son enjoyed a two-week vacation. Tombe was not a hotbed of excitement, but anywhere would have been an improvement over Vult, and it did have a wonderful beach where a one-year-old could run himself to exhaustion instead of his mother.

It was a few days short of Midsummer when
Sea Dragon
rowed into the great harbor of Benign.

Sebrat House had been maintained just as Irona left it, even to the same documents stacked beside her bed. But Sebrat without Vly was going to seem very strange, almost lonelier than Vult. She thought she would ask the Property Commission for another home.

Velny Lavice was still there, although her hair had turned white; she wept tears of joy on meeting her grandson, who callously ignored her. After the welcoming hugs and lamentation, the two women settled down in the familiar ballroom to look at the view and talk of their loss. Irona did not mention that Vly's body had never been found. Nor did she mention those gnawed bones on Svinhofdarhrauk, some of which could have been his.

“Did he ever sleepwalk as a child?”

Velny nodded. “Several times, but only when he was very worried about something. The last time was when his father was dying and we had no future.”

“He was worried at Vult. It was in appalling condition when we arrived, and we had to stay two years, so we thought. The parapet was in bad disrepair.
Oh, no!
Podakan!”

Podakan had discovered a fine pottery vase that he could lift, and he knew what pottery did when dropped on a stone floor. It did. Joyfully displaying all four teeth, he then reached for an alabaster bowl. Irona swept him up in her arms before he could plant a bare foot on a splinter. He yelled in protest. His grandmother roared with laughter, which was definitely not the correct response. She rang for a slave to clean up.

“Perhaps we should take him out on the terrace, ma'am? Nothing breakable there.”

“You think so? He will turn the grounds into a desert in no time.”

They went out to the terrace, to the shady end under the chestnut trees, and there resumed their conversation. Podakan went after the pigeons. For two years, Irona had been starved of political news, but Velny could tell her little. Knipry 640 was still First, still hearty and active. Their neighbor, Ledacos 692, had tried again to win election to the Seven and had lost to Waesche 623, who was literally the oldest of the old guard. Last year's Chosen was Haruna 710, the first woman since Irona.

She would eventually learn all the details from Sazen Hostin, who had agreed to continue as her secretary, but had gone to visit old friends in the Geographical Section for an exchange of news. Irona had no doubts that her affairs would be an open book to the snoops if Sazen was handling them for her, but he would keep her well informed in return.

Daun Bukit had headed home to Overock to discover what had happened to the girl he loved. His letters to her had not been answered, but that was hardly surprising. Much more surprising was that he still cared, after more than three years. Whatever the minstrels sang, not all men were fickle.

“Oh, not the roses!” Velny exclaimed. Podakan had been joyfully ripping apart all the blossoms he could reach and had now spotted new targets.

“Why not the roses?”

“Roses have thorns!”

“Life is a learning experience,” Irona murmured. Podakan was training her how to be a mother.

But then a shadow fell over the scene, quite literally, as a man came striding up the grass toward the terrace. Chosen changed little in two years, and Ledacos seemed just as Irona remembered him. The hem of his sea-green tunic was a little lower, the bracelets and rings a little flashier, but nothing unusual. Velny, of course, dropped to her knees. Podakan thought she wanted to play and came running to her, waving a stick.

Irona remained seated.
Revenge needs a well-sharpened knife
, but now was not the time to produce it. She smiled.

“Very like his father,” Ledacos said. “He will grow up as beautiful as both his parents.” He raised Irona's hand to kiss it. “I have already told Velny of my sympathy. Believe me, that was the worst news I heard all the time you were gone.”

Worse than two failures to join the Seven? Irona thanked him, bade him be seated. Now she was certainly going to hear all the news. Velny muttered excuses and carried Podakan off with promises of cookies.

Ledacos leaned back and regarded Irona with a warm glow of admiration. “Magnificent! You rank now with Eldborg and Eboga as destroyers of evil. The Seven are planning a public celebration of your return, thanksgiving to Caprice and other rigmarole.”

“I have a funeral to attend that day, whenever it is.”

“You won't escape so easily,” he laughed, but his eyes were puzzled. He would love to be feted like that. He was, of course, male.

“When I left so hurriedly,” Irona said, “you were poised to become the youngest Seven in the history of Benign. What went wrong?”

His eyes glinted. “You used to be a client of Obnosa 658.”

“Not really. My tutor, Trodelat, was. After I tied my ship to your star, they discarded me as a traitor to the cause of womanhood.”
And look where it got me.

Ledacos smiled wolfishly. “Then I may safely describe her as a vicious old sow? As you predicted, my dear, the old guard made a two-way race out of it, and the candidate they rallied around was Obnosa. She was the ideal compromise candidate because she has never had enough principles to belong to any faction except her own. The vote split predictably. The kiddies voted for me, but we weren't enough.”

“Time is on your side, then!” Obnosa's term must be about to end. Irona had forgotten how addictive politics was.

“And I may still count on your support?”

“Of course. Whatever I may have achieved—and it really wasn't much—I owe to your help and encouragement.” What a proficient liar she had become! How strange that the ground did not open and swallow her up.

“What you achieved was spectacular. The price of a love fix—which is a rape tool, of course—has gone up a hundredfold since you left!” He chuckled. “That information comes from the Office of Decency, not personal experience.”

A Chosen did not need maleficent sex aids. Power and wealth would do the trick every time, aided by robust health from imbibing ample Source Water.

“And we only ever intercepted one shipment at Vult,” Irona said. “The word went out, which suggests that there is a single dark intelligence lurking in the Dread Lands.”

“But you defeated it! We must consider what you are to do next. The choosing is coming up, and the female tutelage is yours for the asking. There is a seat on the Treaty Commission that offers good opportunities for travel.” His smile added that the opportunities for graft were even better. “Or the Property Commission? I did sort of agree to support a client for that, but I can fob him off with something else.”

She was not going to let him stampede her into hasty decisions. She had her own agenda.

“I need time to think. The ground is still going up and down like a ship for me.”

“Yes, but … But it looks like you are summoned.”

Indeed, blessed relief came striding across the terrace in guise of a young man in the scarlet livery of the First's heralds.

“Irona,” Ledacos said hurriedly. “Obnosa's term ends very shortly. I lost to Waesche by only three votes, and all my supporters are urging me to try again. If I decide to do so this time, will you do me the honor of nominating me?”

Obviously that question had been the main reason for his calling on her so soon. It was a trick question, of course, a means of taking a potential opponent out of the running, or at least of learning whether that person was a potential opponent. But he couldn't truly believe that she was a rival for that job. She wasn't even twenty-seven yet. It would be ten or twenty years before she could try for the Seven, if she ever wanted to.

“I am sure you can find dozens of more senior Chosen whose sponsorship would do you far more good than mine.”

“I doubt it very much. You are a state hero. Please, as a very special favor?”

“Yes, of course I would be honored,” she said.
Never make enemies.
The goddess did not strike her dead.

The herald arrived and went down on one knee to deliver the First's summons.

The chair the First had sent for her was ornamented in red and gilt, and luxuriously cushioned. Eight bearers carried it, sprinting the entire way up the Mountain, with the accompanying honor guard racing alongside.

Much to Irona's surprise, she was shown into the Treaty Hall and advised that the First would be with her shortly. The Treaty Hall was the showpiece of the First's Palace. This was where he received allied kings and princes, or the elected magistrates of the handful of other republics in the Empire. At one end stood the red throne, seven purple thrones, and the appropriate number of sea-green chairs for the Chosen. Opposite that was a magnificent pillared balcony overlooking the mansions of the rich, which descended in a frozen cascade of roofs and fine gardens to the Old City, whose slums and squalor were safely obscured by distance. And beyond them all shone the great bay, with its sails and galleys.

More intriguing for Irona were the portraits along the south wall. Although she had seen them often enough, she had never had a chance to study them properly. Here hung all the Sevens for the last three hundred years. Before that date, portraiture had been too primitive, or else the Seven had not acquired the importance they later achieved in the structure of the Republic. There were no names, only the numbers on the collars. The parade began with seven old men; stolid, face-on, and bearded. All seven had probably been rendered by the same artist, in a single commission. Beards disappeared a couple of generations later and faces grew younger when it was decided that the likeness should be taken upon first election. She found Eboga 500, uglier and meaner than most. So few women! She found Knipry 640, at around forty, looking a great deal more dangerous than he looked now; he had learned to dissemble in the last fifty years, that was all. The latest was Obnosa 658.