Trial of Intentions (37 page)

Suddenly, in front of him wasn't the Child's Voice. In front of him … was a boy. Roth was no longer thinking of the politics or what he wanted to accomplish.

His political maneuverings gone, he asked, “You lived in one of these camps?”

The boy nodded. “Longer than most kids. They sell us fast. But the ones who won the races, they weren't sold. They were kept so they could keep racing.”

“What about your family?” he asked. “Your parents?” He thought again of his father, who'd given Roth up so that he might have better things, real food. A chance for more than dishonest wharf games to fleece unwary marks.

The boy stared a long moment. “I haven't seen them in … I don't know how long. A long time.”

“You were taken?” Roth gently pressed.

Dwayne nodded. “I'm lucky, though. I got out. Got out because I run fast, I guess. That's why I was thinking…” The boy went quiet, his face pinched in thought. “I don't feel right about being the Child's Voice. I'm not even from Recityv. And I think putting me in the race was dishonest.”

“But you could have said this before,” Roth observed with mild challenge.

“I was afraid,” the boy said meekly. “Afraid the man who brought me to the Roon would do something to me. Or my family.”

Roth nodded at the logic. “And you're not afraid anymore?”

Dwayne gave him a long, thoughtful stare. “I was hoping you'd help me with that. People say that's your whole plan. To help folks who need help.” He paused. “I need help.”

The boy had real courage. And Roth no longer simply wanted the boy's vote. This had become more than politics. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been this kid. He wanted to give him the same help the League had given Roth when he'd been young. “Come to the window here, let me show you something.”

At the window, they looked out together on the vast northwest quarter of Recityv. Even from this height, it wasn't possible to see the city's end. Rooftops stretched away out of sight, towers and spires jutting up here and there. The sprawl of Recityv seemed to end at the horizon.

“There are countless families out there, my young man. And they depend on the wisdom of those who sit in council in the Halls of Solath Mahnus.”

The boy continued to look out over Recityv. “The Lesher Roon is meant to select a boy or girl that comes from the people, isn't it?”

“Well, yes,” Roth admitted. “But we are
all
people, are we not? Any child may run. Any child may win. It isn't required that the winner have any kind of schooling or trade skills.” Roth laughed easily, trying to put the boy at ease. “I'll grant you, though, most would prefer a child from the working districts, rather than the merchant or military houses.”

“You want me to stay as the Child's Voice on the Council,” Dwayne said, not exactly asking a question.

Roth settled a thoughtful look on the lad. “I was born with a window not so far from the stench of the street. And I'd prefer that anyone who sits on an important council and votes … know what it's like to live like I did.”

Dwayne watched Roth closely, waiting.

“You've been through your share of hells recently,” Roth said, shaking his head. “Slaver cities, traders…” He knew of the camps. It was something he'd told himself he'd deal with, when time allowed.

“And you think that means I'd make a good Child's Voice,” the boy said, finishing Roth's thought.

“I do. Wait, no, I don't
think
it,” he amended, “I
know
it.”

Dwayne drank more liberally of his refreshment. He wiped his lips and looked out the window again, questions seeming to return to his eyes. Roth studied the boy's face. There was indeed a great deal of discernment in the lad. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised, as spending time in a place like Galadell would teach any child to detect guile. This boy had that ability, and added the calm courage to simply say what he thought.

“You didn't know I came from the camps, so you weren't the one paying the man to pretend to be my dad.” The boy licked his lips, perhaps nervous. “But you still invited me here for something. Probably to ask me to vote the way you want me to.” He turned to Roth, rushing his words a bit. “That's why I don't want to be on the Council. Everyone has been to see me. Telling me their story. Asking me to vote with them.” He paused, composing himself. “You can find someone better than me. And if you're the man they say, you'll help me get out of it. You'll help me get back to my family. Isn't that what the League is for?”

The dread in the boy's eyes struck Roth with a pang of remembrance. It was the fearful lesson a child sometimes learns: that he's dependent on his elders … elders who abuse his fragile need and trust.

Roth knelt on one knee in front of the boy. “I make you a promise, young master Dwayne,” he said in a low, confident tone. “I will find your family. I will bring them here, and make them safe.”

The boy's brow furrowed in question. Doubt, maybe.

Roth looked up at the door. “Dimond.”

His attendant entered the room. “When Master Dwayne and I are finished here, you will gather every detail he can give you about his family. You will then commission ten of our best men to find them and bring them safely to Recityv. They'll be given quarters in the League strong house until further notice.”

Leagueman Dimond nodded and closed the door on his way out.

His meeting with the boy had taken a completely different path. He'd prepared for Dwayne as he did for every other politician. And in the course of a few minutes, he'd been reminded of the reason he'd wanted to be Ascendant in the first place. Reminded of the reason he wanted to steer the Council and Convocation.

He patted the boy's shoulders. “I have a lot of confidence in the votes you would cast. Stay. I'll take care of the rest. And in no time you'll be sharing evening dinner with your father.” A smile crept over his face, sincere and full of remembrance of his own da.

Dwayne smiled with relief and gratitude. He lunged forward and hugged Roth. It wasn't something Roth was used to, but he put his arms around the boy and shared the embrace.

“Glad to have you back,” Roth said.

The boy let go, offered a nod, and took another long drink of his lime water. He looked out the window to his left, and asked, “What's the first thing for us to vote about?”

Roth smiled, and turned to share the view with his new comrade. “Well, Dwayne, we need to talk about the regent.…”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Call Your Vote

One can make private hatred acceptable, if it can be publicly fashioned in the interest of others.

—
Axioms of Inveiglement,
a rhetoric reader authored by Dimnian separatists

F
rom the street to the heights of Helaina's High Office, Solath Mahnus boasted twenty-seven floors, most of which required three hundred strides to cross from one side to the other. The Court of Judicature and its attendant offices resided in the southeast corner, occupying many Solath Mahnus levels. And elsewhere, her other council constituents held their own meetings in their own halls and offices. But at the center of the fifth floor, a modestly sized room, surrounded by thick granite walls, hosted Recityv's most important discussions—the High Council Chamber. Today, she prepared for a war of words.

She arrived early to ease herself into the room and to limber her body a little before the Council session began. In the stillness of the chamber, she strolled slowly over the carpeted floor, circling the table at its center. To her left, the chamber walls had likewise been draped with heavy rugs, each depicting moments of Recityv history.

Fresh pitchers of water and goblets had been set before each seat at the table, fourteen in all—one for each member of the Council. She hoped those she'd lobbied to retake their place at her table would come. She guessed Roth had also been having private meetings with Council members, seeking a majority to forward his agenda.

But it might take more than votes today. She would see.

A moment later, Roth entered smartly through the door. She straightened, making sure he didn't see her in any pain. One blessing she enjoyed was that politics gave her vigor.

The two shared a look, like combatants preparing for battle, and Helaina gently touched the bruise on the back of her head in a suggestive manner.

Before either of them could speak, the others began to stream into the council chamber, their footsteps hushed upon the carpeted floor.

One by one, they found their seats.

Artixan, her loyal friend, and the ranking Sheason in Recityv, took his chair next to Helaina's. First Sodalist Rochard E'Sau followed Artixan close and sat beside the Sheason. General Van Steward strode past her and touched her elbow gently before taking his seat on the other side of her chair from Artixan. These men were her staunchest supporters.

Soon after came the People's Advocate, Hemwell Or'slaed, voted into his position here by general election; he plodded in and sat heavily—the man ate free at every mealhouse in the city. Jermond Pleades, First Counselor of the Court of Judicature, came in escorting the new Child's Voice, Dwayne Alusel; the sight of them together tightened her stomach for reasons she couldn't explain. Behind them came the Commerce Chair—as they'd deemed it—Krystana Surent, who waddled in, a ponderously large and formidable woman with short hair and a forward-leaning gait. Krystana represented all the merchant houses, but she descended from Helaina's own family's most bitter commerce rival. The woman had been her fiercest enemy on the Knowledge Law.

In quick succession came the rest: Belamae of Descant Cathedral, with whom Helaina shared a warm smile; Lead Scrivener and scola Cheyin Grase—quite simply the smartest woman Helaina knew; Ambassador of Vohnce, Patrelia Calon, whose beauty belied her shrewdness—the latter serving Helaina well in matters of state; and lastly Prelate Noleris of Bastulan, who was assisted to her seat by two of her clergy, her hands and most of her face wrapped in fresh bandages that showed only a hint of stain.

Author Garlen hadn't come. Helaina could have guessed he'd be the one to deny her appeal. He simply cared for nothing but his words.

Thirteen of the fourteen seats would be occupied. Despite A'Garlen's absence, it was still better than Helaina had hoped.

She looked back at Roth, assumed a stately air, and moved to her own seat. The rustling of Council members settling into their places ceased as all eyes turned toward her.

“Let us begin,” she said, and sat ceremonially, completing the circle. “Not all of you have supported my recalling of the Convocation. But the law grants me the authority. And we're nearly ready to commence.”

Roth muttered something. Helaina ignored him.

“I've asked you here to put our own affairs in order, so that our example might set the proper tone for Convocation. I believe solidarity here,” she tapped the table, “is needed for Convocation to succeed. And to arrive at solidarity, there are some things we must discuss. I'll have candor. Put grievances behind you or set them in their rightful place, the courts.”

“Yes, let us have candor,” Roth interjected. “The laws are old and no longer safe that give the regent the authority to act alone in any matter of civil responsibility.” Roth looked around the table. “I fully admit my quarrels with our regent, and I respect the office she occupies. This isn't about Helaina, personally. But it's irresponsible for us to have allowed the known world to send its kings and queens to our door for reasons we can't validate, for myths we are better to dispel than encourage with our politics.”

Helaina turned and nodded at Cheyin Grase, who pulled several parchments from a leather bag at her side. She handed them to Ambassador Calon on her left and indicated that she should review them and pass them on.

“What trick is this?” Roth asked, light skepticism in his voice.

The scrivener leveled an academic eye on him—neither critique nor appeal—and spoke with quiet confidence, and perhaps sadness. “Almost a month ago, you'll remember we had a report of an attack on the library at Qum'rahm'se. We dispatched twenty scriveners to accompany several dozen of General Van Steward's men to investigate the testimony contained in the letters now being passed between you.

“It's all true. The library has been burned to cinders; the mountain that encased it is now little more than a flow of melted stone.”

“What's your point?” Roth asked, his polite impatience a common form of his condescension.

Scrivener Grase's head tilted to one side, as though she meant to talk to a child or dullard. “We didn't build the library on a volcano, Ascendant Staned. Besides which, a volcano would have burned away a mountainside, or more. What we found was a burn focused on Qum'rahm'se. And nothing occurs naturally in our world that could seek and destroy a labyrinth of stone with such incendiary heat.” She paused, as if to allow Roth the chance to answer the question himself.

Roth would obviously not be baited.

Cheyin looked at him with contempt. “The only plausible answer is that the rendering of the Will brought destruction to Qum'rahm'se. That would indicate that the Quiet have come deep into the south. And they clearly desire to put an end to our search for understanding of formative languages.”

Roth cast his eye at Artixan. “And how do you know it wasn't the Sheason? Internal strife has them competing with one another for position and dominance. Their credo is vexed by the schism in their own order.”

Helaina watched as Artixan turned toward Roth. The Sheason's kind brow remained unfurrowed. Artixan would know, as she did, that Roth didn't really expect the Council to associate the attack on the library with his order. But it gave Roth the opportunity to remind those seated here that the Sheason Order was in disarray. He'd tipped his hand on at least part of his own agenda for today's Council meeting.