Berlice said, “Custom decrees that the nearest adult male relative shall succeed, but there is no such man available in this instance-yet.” Then she drove in the knife. “Because lord Chies is not yet of age.”
Meaning, Because lord Chies is not of the House of Celebre. Anyone could tell just by looking at him that Chies was Stralg’s. At the turn-of-the-year sacrifice, he would come of age-only yesterday Oliva had helped him choose the insignia for his seal, which was now being carved. He would be the youngest new man in the temple, for he had been born only hours before the end of his actual birth year, but such was the custom in Celebre. The council might not give a sixteen-year-old doge free rein, but he would be eligible to wear the coronet if the elders so wanted.
Had the honorable elders really come to ask if Oliva was ready to declare her youngest child a bastard and disinherit him? Chies would appeal to Stralg. The councillors must know that they were irrelevant as long as the Fist had a vote.
“The lord doge has given me no instructions,” Oliva said.
“Has the bloodlord?” Berlice asked in a voice like an envenomed stiletto.
“No. A year ago we asked him to return the children he took as hostages, and he promised to bring back at least one, probably lord Dantio, our eldest.”
Eyes turned to look at the drizzle and the sodden gardens.
“They cannot arrive before dry season now,” Berlice said.
Oliva sighed. “No. And the doge cannot help you. Put the question to him if you wish. It will be only a formality. He will not hear you.”
“Indeed? How long has he been in this condition?” Berlice meant, When did you usurp the throne?
“It happened gradually,” Oliva spoke as civilly as she could manage. “The doge gave his seal to me and my authority stands until he revokes it or returns to the womb. Is that not correct, Speaker?”
Quarina nodded. “That is the custom of the city.”
“You have done a fine job, my lady,” Giordano said, jowls wiggling. “In very trying times, too. We are all in your debt.”
Berlice made no sound, but her expression was expressive.
Oliva said, “My lord is kind. If you will come with me? I should prefer that we go unattended.”
She led them across the great hall, out into windy, shadowed corridors… servants falling to their knees and bowing heads until the nobility passed… the sad stillness of a house in mourning…
“My husband directed that the state bedchamber not be used as a sickroom,” she explained, in case the delegation assumed that this was her idea. In fact the state bedchamber was where the most valuable pieces of the ducal art collection were kept. It had been kept shut up for years and apparently Stralg had never learned of it. In accepting the surrender of the city, he had guaranteed no looting, but had he ever seen the treasures in there he would certainly have smashed the treaty tablets and helped himself.
Piero’s sickroom was so small that there was little space to move around the tiny cot on which the dying man lay like a discarded rag doll-a skull face on a pillow, and a barely perceptible shape below the sheet. The air was hot and heavy with the reek of godswood braziers, plus a sour scent of death. On a stool at one side of the bed sat a brown-robed, hooded Mercy, holding the patient’s hand, although for the last two thirties he had been unresponsive even to the Nulists. He was beyond pain. The woman looked up and nodded respectfully, but did not rise.
On the other side of the bed, arms on thighs and head bowed in sorrow, sat a large young man. He sprang to his feet as if startled, then hastily bowed to Oliva and each visitor in turn. He even got the order of precedence right.
Chies never came here! How had he known the elders were coming today? The reason his own mother had failed to recognize him for a moment was that he was draped in an adult chlamys, to which he was not yet entitled. A simple ivory pin fastened it at his right shoulder and the sheet itself was of unbleached linen, quite unlike the rich brocade he favored for his usual loincloths. The dagger at his side was plain bronze, without as much as an alabaster pommel to decorate it, and hung on a simple cord, not even a leather belt. When had she ever seen him wearing no jewelry at all, not even a ring?
She was staggered. Was this the rebellious adolescent pest she fought with every day? The hellion who threw up in corridors, who consorted with street girls and ice devil Werists? He was still slim, of course, but the drapery of the chlamys masked his skinniness, and he was much taller than lord Giordano, who was no mouse. The great hooked Stralg nose no longer seemed so absurd, now that he was gaining the chin and shoulders to justify it.
Her initial anger switched suddenly to pity, and even admiration. Stralg had never acknowledged that Chies existed, far less was his son, and yet who else could the boy use as a model? He had absolutely no right to the ducal coronet. He knew that and so did everyone else, but his real father was never one to worry about legality. Oliva could not blame him for trying. He was entitled to try. If he could get himself elected doge, even the Fist would be impressed.
Berlice Spirno-Cavotti was watching Chies with a completely unreadable expression. Had she put him up to this? Her faction might have concluded that Chies as a figurehead doge would be the best way to keep Stralg off their necks. Giordano Giali and his traditionalist faction might even have agreed with them, on the understanding that Chies would accompany his father to the Dark One’s embrace when that happy hour arrived. Or Stralg himself might be behind this, having bypassed Oliva as irrelevant.
“A sad time for you,” Giordano said, “-my lord.”
Delight at the honorific flashed in the boy’s eyes and was suppressed. He bowed. “I am young to lose a father, lord Giordano. I wish I could have been given time to be a good son to him.”
Oh, really! Oliva made a note to find out who had coached him. She must congratulate him on his performance, provided he did not overdo it now. “The councillors are here on business, Chies. You may withdraw.”
He bowed. “I do think, Mama, that this is one of his better days. You know how some nights I can’t sleep, so I come and sit with him here. Just before dawn this morning I thought he knew me for a moment or two.”
“Oh?” Oliva had given strict orders that she was to be informed if there was any change in Piero’s condition. She hurled a ferocious glare across at the Nulist.
“He did stir a little about that time, my lady. It was nothing.” The Mercy did not state who else had been present. Had Chies bribed her?
Chies recognized that his time was up and made a flowery departure. He had done very well, although Oliva doubted he had deceived this audience.
“Can you rouse him at all, Mercy? This is important.”
The woman sighed. “I will try, my lady.” She clasped the dying man’s hand in both of hers and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she opened them again and said, “Be quick!”
Oliva said, “Piero? Piero, can you hear me? It’s Oliva.”
Did his breathing change a little? She looked to the councillors and shrugged.
Giordano said, “My lord Doge, this is Giordano Giali. The council sent us. Can you hear us?”
Nothing happened for several heartbeats. Berlice leaned forward as if to speak… and Piero’s lids flickered. His eyes opened slightly. They stared up at the ceiling, motionless, but they were open.
“My lord,” Giordano said, “the council sent us to ask you a question: Who is your choice to be your successor?”
The eyes did not move.
Berlice tried. “My lord, the council wants to know who is to be doge after you? Your children are not here. We need a doge. Who?”
The sheet over his chest lifted slightly… sank… rose… Doge Piero whispered something and closed his eyes again. They repeated the question several times, but he had gone, returned to whatever anteroom the Foul One used to store the near-dead. The delegates exchanged baffled glances.