going on out there… the city, I mean.”
Fabia hugged Oliva again. “All these years with only one of us to mother, and suddenly you have four. We did tell you Chies is safe, didn’t we? It will take years to explain all this!”
“You met Chies? You’ve seen him?”
“Yes, Mama. The Mutineer had him kidnapped, but he’s been well cared for and he was being very brave. They had not broken his spirit. You would have been proud of him!”
“Oh.” Oliva seemed to be at a loss for words. She was not as tall as Fabia, but broad and imposing. Care lines marred her face and her hair was streaked with silver, yet the resemblance was strong enough that Fabia could almost believe that she was viewing herself in a poor quality silver mirror.
“Chies certainly looks like Stralg,” she said. “But that isn’t his fault, is it? And it wasn’t your fault. You and Papa raised him and he’s a credit to both of you. We made him welcome, Mama, all three of us did.”
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
