Mother of Lies (50 page)

Oliva stared hard at her, searching her eyes for evidence of false comfort. “You are very kind. He was all we had, you know—after you had gone. He has been difficult these last few years.”

“What boy is not, at his age? His position cannot have been easy. Look after Dantio while I see to Orlad.” Fabia started in his direction, but Orlad was striding back to the bloodlord’s corpse. He pushed some gawking elders out of the way, took it by the ankle, and began to tow it. Evidently he had the same idea she had, of laying the carrion at Piero’s feet. More and more people were plucking up courage to enter the hall. Both doors were open, admitting Florengian men wearing brass collars—and in some cases nothing more, save bloodstains. Cavotti must rule the palace, as Dantio had said. She wondered when the Mutineer himself would appear.

There were at least four big fires burning across the river and she had a view of less than half the city. What an incredible day!—the drive from Montegola, entering Celebre by the Cypress Gate, the cloak-and-dagger meeting with Cavotti’s mother and later the justiciar; the news that Piero had just died. She had walked with Dantio along Pantheon Way and Goldbeater Street and other great avenues that he had told them about during their crossing of the Edge. She had admired buildings far grander than anything Skjar or Kosord had to offer. Some of them would be gone by morning, although the rain should help limit the fires’ spread. It was the Day the Lost Returned. The Day Doge Piero Died. No, history would remember this day as the Fall of Stralg.

Servants were trying to clear the hall. One accosted her officiously. “You, girl! You must leave now.”

She told him who she was and he fell to his knees, stammering a horrified apology. She wandered back to Oliva and Dantio at the throne. They had serious company—senior-looking Werists, some priests, palace officials wearing black robes of mourning and carrying staffs of office. The woman barking orders at them all was Speaker Quarina. She was being obeyed, men scurrying to do her bidding.

Order was being restored. Flunkies were replacing the mourning drapery on the throne, stools had been brought for Dantio and Oliva.

“Speaker!” barked the old Giali man. “What is going on here?”

Quarina said, “Pray take a seat, my lord. I am about to explain.”

What was going on, or about to go on, Fabia realized, was a meeting. Servants were setting out stools in a horseshoe facing the catafalque, ringing them with tall silver candelabra to lift the darkness. Eighteen stools and one chair? Quarina was convening the council.
Curse of Xaran!
Fabia had not expected this to happen for days yet. She was not ready.

A portly herald began bellowing. “My lords and ladies!” He bade elders draw nigh and all others disperse. Now a double row of stools was being laid out facing the mouth of the horseshoe; Dantio and Oliva were going there. The four in the front must be intended for the family, so Fabia went to join them. She sat next her mother and a moment later Orlad slumped down at her side and put his face in his hands.

“I am very sorry about Waels,” she whispered. “He was a wonderful man and a great Hero.”

Orlad paid no attention. There had been so little love in his life! Small wonder if he felt the gods had betrayed him in his moment of victory.

Palace officials were still jostling for places in the row behind, with angry whispered arguments about precedence. Behind Speaker Quarina, cross-legged scribes were hastily laying out their tools. She did not wait for them.

“Honorable elders, by the authority of custom and in my office of justiciar, I hereby convene this meeting. I see fifteen of you present. There are eighteen elders on the council, so any vote of ten or more carries the weight of all.”

“Protest!” The big old man was on his feet, face scarlet.

“Lord Giordano Giali?”

“No meeting of council should be held without the doge except the meeting to elect the next doge, and that is never held until the day after his funer—”

“You are overruled. I can quote at least nine instances where the election was held on the day the doge died, or even before he died. The city is in flames, there is fighting in the streets, the bloodlord’s corpse lies at your back with his death unavenged, and a hostile army lurks outside the walls. We must have a doge!”

She stared menacingly around at fifteen faces—twelve men, three women. Werists had cleared the hall, herding the onlookers back to the line of pillars. Fabia caught the knowing eye of Berlice Spirno-Cavotti and they shrugged in mirror image. This sudden election was not a possibility they had discussed that afternoon. It was improvisation time.

“Very well,” the Speaker said as Giordano subsided. “I testify to this company that the invariant custom of Celebre is to elect as doge a close adult male relative of the doge most recently deceased, to the farthest extent of first cousin twice removed, excepting that female relatives within such degree have been recognized on two occasions by the election of their husbands. It is likewise custom for a doge on his deathbed to recommend a candidate to the elders. Although that recommendation is officially given the weight of one vote, I know of only five occasions on which the council did not accept it as binding.

“You have been previously advised that, on the first day of the Festival of New Oil, two honorable elders here present waited upon Doge Piero and prayed him to disclose the name of his preferred successor. As they will confirm, he responded by saying, ‘The Winner.’ Yes, lord Ritormo Nucci?”

The peppery little man was on his feet. “What
winner
? Who decides who that is?”

“You do. The council does. Or the council may ignore that report, as it pleases.” The Speaker squared her shoulders, as if glad to be done with the preliminaries. She smiled across at the row of spectators. “As president of this meeting, I call for any eligible relatives of our dearly mourned Doge Piero the Sixth now present to identify themselves and declare their willingness to serve.”

Dantio tried to stand and failed. He raised his good hand. “May I speak seated, Speaker?” Even his voice trembled.

“You may.”

“Honorable elders, I am Dantio Celebre, eldest son of Doge Piero. I have only today returned from exile. I take myself out of contention on the grounds that I am a sworn Witness of Mayn and am therefore committed to observe the doings of the world, never to influence them.” He forced a pale smile. “My present discomfort was caused by an attempt to interfere in the execution of Stralg Hragson and may therefore be regarded as divine punishment.”

The elders’ chuckles swelled into a round of applause. The mood of the council was visibly changing, as if they were just realizing that they did have a function after all, that Stralg would not be appointing a governor over them. Clouds were rolling back from the sun, revealing a world they had almost forgotten, Florengia without the Fist.

“Question!” said a fat, oily-looking man. “Speaker, cannot a cultist be released from his vows under such circumstances?”

Having discussed that during the afternoon planning session, Quarina knew Dantio’s views. “If lord Dantio were to apply to the Eldest of his order in Vigaelia, she might agree to release him. Do you wish to make such application, lord Dantio?”

“I do not. I will not serve as doge.”

“Then I declare you removed from consideration. You may present any other candidates present.” That, too, had been agreed beforehand.

Dantio’s face was slick with sweat, but his voice was steadying.

“I will first mention two who are not present. Our brother Benard, next in line to me, has remained in Vigaelia, having won office as consort of a great city, Kosord. As the honorable elders can see, breeding will tell!”

Laughter, more applause. They were enjoying this new authority.

“Our youngest sibling,” Dantio continued with tactful irrelevance, “lord Chies, is also not present.” That name provoked dark looks from the elders. “He unavoidably missed the turn-of-the-year ceremony. Consequently he is officially not yet an adult, therefore not eligible.”

Smiles. That neat way out of the Chies problem had been arranged by the Mutineer, of course, but no one was mentioning him. Again Fabia caught Berlice’s eye. Marno, wherever he was, could not know about this precipitate election. He might be menzils away or putting out fires in the next street. He had not been present during the afternoon planning session; Fabia had not seen him since the previous evening. No one had known that Stralg would die, the city riot, the Speaker stampede the election.

Dantio said, “I have one more brother to offer, my lords and ladies. Lord Orlad tonight slew the monster Stralg. He is not only the sole candidate eligible under the terms outlined by Speaker Quarina, he must be the Winner foreseen by our father. Stand up, Orlad.”

Eyes still red, cheeks still damp, Orlad rose and scowled at the elders. They sprang to their feet also, clapping and cheering. He had won the prize he had wanted more than anything, and it must taste as bitter as alum. And now he was going to win the battle for the succession by default. Fabia was not ready to make her play.

Speaker Quarina called for order. When the elders resumed their seats, she said, “Are you able and willing to serve as doge, lord Orlad?”

“I am.”

Two words he could manage. If they wanted a speech, he would flounder.

And he was very young. This was the first time the justiciar had met Orlad, and the doubt showing on her face was reflected on many of the others’. Fabia could damn his candidacy just by pointing out that he had never even seen a great city before today, let alone lived in one. Instinct warned her that she would antagonize not only Orlad but the council as well. She would seem like a mere spoiler. And yet what else could she do? …

“My lords,” the Speaker said, “you appear to have a choice of one candidate. Doge Piero has already cast his vote in favor of the Winner, and you may make up your own minds whether he had been granted foresight by the gods …” Marno’s mother was on her feet. “Councillor Spirno-Cavotti?”

“Justiciar, I do not belittle Hero Orlad’s magnificent feat in killing the evil Fist tonight, but it is common knowledge that the tide of war has been turned and the utter defeat of the ice devils is only a matter of a season or two. There is another winner the honorable elders should—”

The council erupted. “No! No!”

The loudest was little Ritormo Nucci. “Traitor!” he screamed. “You supported Stralg. Every meeting for years you voted for whatever might please him! For years you and your jackals ran with the Vigaelian pigs and now you want to put your son on the throne? You should be evicted from the council, you and all the other snakes!”

Dantio murmured, “Muddled zoology.” He had his eyes closed and should be rushed off to a warm sleeping rug.

Roars of agreement and disagreement filled the air. Half the council wanted to expel the other half and vice versa. Beside Fabia, Oliva was laughing—nasty, tight, silent laughter all for herself, not shared, perhaps not even conscious. Politics were no longer her problem. Quarina was yelling for order and not being heard.

“ELDERS!”
Orlad’s superhuman roar would have silenced a thunderstorm. The hall rang with it. “Sit down!”

They sat down, but he had not helped his cause.

The Speaker smiled, thin-lipped. “Thank you, lord Orlad. It would appear, Berlice, that the council does not wish to consider your son as a candidate.”

More angry growls and murmurs indicated that some of the council did.

Berlice bounced up again. “That was not what I was going to propose! May I be heard?”

“Very well. You have the floor.”

“Elders, one child of Doge Piero has not been mentioned. May we hear from her?” Berlice sat down.

The Speaker hesitated. She had not been forewarned of this. “Unless the council objects?” Most elders were frowning, but no voice was raised. “Lady Fabia?”

Fabia lurched to her feet and faced the assembled glares as bravely as she could.

“My lords and ladies, I am Fabia Celebre, fourth child and only daughter of the late doge. I am aware that women are not elected doge.” She glanced sideways. Orlad was still on his feet and his incandescent glare showed that he had guessed what was coming.

“Continue!” Quarina snapped.

Fabia waded deeper into the crocodile pool. “How could my father have known that my brother would fight Stralg tonight, let alone win such a battle? I ask the honorable elders to consider my fiancé as a candidate for the office of doge.” The only difficulty was that she did not have a fiancé. “Had this meeting been held after the funeral, as we—”

Now the Speaker had guessed also, and was angry that she had been kept out of the secret. “Will you deign to tell the council the name of this fortunate betrothed, or have you yet to choose one?”

“My lords, ladies, I have the honor to be engaged to marry lord Marno Cavotti, the Mutineer, the Liberator. He is a native of this city.”

She was lying. They were not engaged. They had discussed the possibility on the journey from Veritano. They had agreed it had merit and they would think about it. They had expected to have more time. But fortune favors the swift—Marno had told her that.

Everyone tried to speak at once, and in the confusion Fabia saw salvation over by the pillars. Civilians were fleeing in terror. A bodyguard of a dozen or so Werists was opening a way through the crowd, making room for the twisted, ogreish figure of Marno Cavotti, looming head and shoulders over even the largest of them. With the fires at his back, he was a troll’s nightmare. But a very welcome sight for Fabia. At last!

Oliva screamed. “What is that?”

“The Mutineer, Mother. Marno Cavotti.”

Both Oliva and Berlice cried out in horror.

Orlad muttered, “
Trollop!
So that was what you were up to in that chariot!”

“Celebre needs him, Mama. Orlad, I am truly sorry. I was going to tell you, but there was no time.”

Dantio muttered “Nicely done!” under his breath, but did not explain what he meant.

“Slut!”
Orlad sat down. “You would bed down with
that
?”