2

SIX STAIRCASES and three conversations with only partially helpful attendants later, they found Sabetha waiting for them in a balcony room overlooking the south side of the Grand Salon. Some long-dead nobleman stared eerily from a wall fresco, gazing out at a scrollworked metal screen that allowed a fine view of the crowd and the stage below.

Sabetha wore another ensemble more in the fashion of a riding outfit than a ball gown, a tight red velvet jacket with slashed sleeves over a dress of black silk panels embroidered in scarlet astronomical signs. Locke pieced them together in his head and realized she was wearing a sunrise and moonrise chart for this very day, month, and calendar year.

“Like it?” she said, spreading her arms. “In accordance with the instructions of my principals, I did my bit to spend every last copper they gave me.”

“Dutiful to authority, that’s you every time,” said Locke. She offered her hand, and he wasn’t shy in kissing it. The trio made themselves comfortable at a little table provisioned with almond cakes, brandy, and four red crystal snifters. Locke took the lead and seized the bottle.

“A glass poured to air for absent friends,” he said as he filled the fourth snifter and pushed it aside. “May the lessons they taught us give everyone a hell of a show tonight.”

“Here’s to living long enough to appreciate whatever happens,” said Jean.

“Here’s to politics,” said Sabetha. “Let’s never hop in bed with it again.”

They touched glasses and drank. The stuff had a pale caramel color and washed Locke’s throat with sweet, welcome heat. Not an alchemical brandy, but one of the old-fashioned western styles with hints of peach and walnut woven into its vapors.

“Here comes the verdict,” said Sabetha.

Down on the floor the crowd parted for a troop of bluecoats, escorting somberly dressed officials carrying wooden chests and huge brass speaking trumpets like blossoming tulips. These trumpets were secured to projections on the stage, and the wooden chests were set down behind them. A petite woman with thick gray curls cut short at the neck stepped up to one of the speaking trumpets.

“First Magistrate Sedelkis,” said Sabetha. “Arbiter of the Change. Come election season, she’s like a temporary fourteenth god.”

“No representative from the magi?” said Locke. “They don’t even send a plate of fruit and a kind note?”

“I understand they vouchsafe this ceremony,” said Sabetha, “so gods help anyone who tries to adjust the tallies. But they’ll never let themselves be seen.”

“Not unless they’re somewhere private with a target for abuse,” said Locke.

On the platform below, some attendants unlocked the chests, while others took positions near the slate boards.

“Fellow citizens,” boomed First Magistrate Sedelkis, “honorable Konseil members and officers of the republic, welcome. I have the honor of closing the seventy-ninth season of elections in the Republic of Karthain by reading the results into the public record. The returns by district, commencing with Isas Thedra:”

An attendant took an envelope from one of the chests. Sedelkis tore it open and pulled out a parchment embossed with seals and ribbons.

“By the count of one hundred and fifteen to sixty, Firstson Epitalus of the Deep Roots party.”

Loud applause erupted from half the population of the Grand Salon. One attendant chalked the official numbers on a board, while others lit a green-glowing candle and used a long pole to place it beneath the first frosted glass globe.

“Do you wish to concede, madam?” said Locke.

“I think that one was one of the foregone conclusions,” said Sabetha.

“Damn,” said Locke. “She’s too clever for us.”

“For the Isle of Hammers, by the count of two hundred and thirty-five to one hundred,” announced Sedelkis, “Fourthdaughter DuLerian, for the Black Iris party.”

The attendants lit and placed another candle, one that gave off a purple-blue light so dark it was a fair approximation of black.

“Well how now?” said Sabetha, pouring a fresh round of drinks. “Nothing pithy to say?”

“I would never dream of pithing in front of you,” said Locke.

Seven green lights and four black lights blazed by the time Sedelkis announced, “For the Bursadi District, by the count of one hundred and forty-six to one hundred and twenty-two, Secondson Lovaris of the Black Iris party.”

Jean sighed theatrically.

“That poor man,” said Sabetha. “So nearly victimized by unscrupulous relic thieves.”

“We rejoice at his deliverance,” said Locke.

“For the Plaza Gandolo,” boomed Sedelkis, “by the count of eighty-one to sixty-five, Seconddaughter Viracois of the Black Iris party.”

“Oh, Perelandro’s balls, we filled her housewith stolen goods!” said Jean. “She was charged with eleven counts of housebreak or receiving! What possible grease could you apply to that?”

“I came up with a story that Viracois was secretly sheltering a distant cousin,” said Sabetha. “And that this cousin was severely touched in the head. Had a real mania for stealing things. Even hired an actress to play the role for a few days. I had Viracois circulate to apologize personally for the fact that her ‘cousin’ had managed to slip away from supervision, and once all the stolen goods were identified and returned, all those sympathetic people quietly rescinded their charges. And discreetly talked to their friends and neighbors, of course.”

“Rescinded charges.” Locke shook his head. “No bloody wonder paying off the magistrate didn’t get us anything.”

“For the Isas Mellia,” announced Sedelkis, “by the count of seventy-five to thirty-one, Damned Superstition Dexa of the Deep Roots party.”

“Didn’t even bother much with that one,” said Sabetha.

“Well, you did try to bribe her cook,” said Locke. “And her doorman. And her footmen. And her solicitor. And her carriage driver. And her tobacconist.”

“I succeededin bribing the doorman,” said Sabetha. “I just couldn’t find anything constructive to do with him.”

“At least I won’t have to eat a hat,” Locke whispered to Jean.

“For the Silverchase,” announced Sedelkis, “by the count of one hundred and eight to sixty-seven, Light-of-the-Amathel Azalon of the Deep Roots party.”

That was the last green candle to be lit for a long time, however. The next three blazed black, bringing the total to nine and nine.

“It’s all theater in the end, isn’t it?” said Sabetha. The brandy had brought color to her cheeks. “All our running around in costumes, saying our lines. Now the chorus comes out onstage to recite the moral and send the audience home.”

“Half of them are about to wish they had some fruit to throw,” said Jean.

“Shhh, here it comes,” said Sabetha.

“The final report,” announced Sedelkis, opening the envelope with a flourish. “For the Palanta District, by the count of one hundred and seventy to one hundred and fifty-two, Thirdson Jovindus of the Black Iris party!”

The last lamp flared with dark light.

3

CONSTERNATION ERUPTED on the floor, shouts of joy mingling with accusations, cries of disbelief, and insults.

Sabetha folded her arms, leaned back in her chair, and adopted a wide, genuine smile.

“You boys gave me a closer run than I expected,” she said. “And I did have the advantage of getting here first.”

“That’s a gracious admission,” said Jean.

“Your gimmick with Lovaris would have been magnificent fun to watch,” said Sabetha. “I’m almost sad I had to put my foot down on it.”

“I’m not,” said Locke.

“ORDER,” cried First Magistrate Sedelkis. “ORDER!” The cloaked bluecoats surrounding the stage drove their staves rhythmically against the ground until the crowd heeded Sedelkis.

“All districts having reported, I hereby declare these results rightful and valid. Karthain has a Konseil. Gods bless the Presence. Gods bless the Republic of Karthain!”