Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [52]
One had gone to Benoit Vallon. No doubt he would have preferred a seat in one of the boxes, but my influence extended only so far.
Forty-nine would be drawn from a great urn in Elua’s Square.
Notices had been posted on broadsheets about the City. The day dawned bright and cold, cold enough that one’s breath frosted the air, but the cold did nothing to deter D’Angelines eager for a spectacle. By mid-day when the lots were to be drawn, Elua’s Square was filled with a throng of people.
Young Princess Desirée had begged to be allowed to attend, but the King had refused, citing the difficulty of protecting a small child amidst a crowd. Gazing at the throng, I had to agree.
“This is fun, isn’t it?” Beneath the leafless crown of Elua’s Oak where a dais had been erected, Bao nudged me. He cut a striking figure in his black-and-white magpie coat.
I smiled. “Aye, it is.”
Tradesmen, shopkeepers, and housewives called out good-natured pleas for a chance at the lottery, promising all manner of extravagant bribes. The squadron of royal guardsmen dispatched to maintain order attempted to shout them down in an equally good-natured manner, keeping rough track of who had arrived first, thus deserving the first crack at the lottery.
The urn itself was a massive thing, dark blue enamel etched in silver with the swan insignia of House Courcel. It rested in a stand atop the dais, canted toward the crowd. It had a narrow opening, but its large, rounded belly contained some five hundred porcelain tiles stamped with the royal seal, forty-nine of which were gilded and could be presented to admit the bearer to the ceremony.
As the sun climbed toward its zenith, the crowd grew louder and louder; but it was a joyous sound, and I was glad of it.
There were a handful of others on the dais with us, including the Secretary of the Presence representing the King’s authority, and a priest or priestess representing each of the orders of Blessed Elua and his Companions. My father was there for Naamah’s Order, smiling with quiet pride. But it was Bao and I who were presiding over the event, and it was toward us that the eager, hopeful citizens directed their shouts and pleas.
A great cheer arose as distant bells sounded the hour. The Captain of the Royal Guard offered me a courtly bow. “Are you ready, my lady?”
“I am, my lord captain.” Raising my voice, I called, “Let the lottery begin!”
The crowd cheered again.
With a smile, the captain ushered the first aspirant forward. A burly fellow with a blacksmith’s knotted muscles stuck his meaty hand into the mouth of the urn, fishing around inside it. He had a difficult time drawing his clenched fist out, prompting laughter and cat-calls from the crowd.
“Maybe we need to send for some goose-grease, Moirin?” Bao suggested cheerfully.
“No, no! Not yet!” Easing his hand out of the aperture, the smith opened it to show us a white porcelain tile. “No luck today, eh?”
“I’m sorry, messire,” I offered with sympathy.
He lifted his wide shoulders in a shrug. “Still, it’s something to tell the grandchildren, eh? Thank you for the chance, lady,” he added. “Not many folk would have thought of it.”
“Nor did I,” I said honestly. As much as I would have liked to take credit for the notion, it seemed unworthy—especially with my father and assorted priests and priestesses in attendance. “I must confess, the idea was another’s.”
The smith laughed deep in his chest. “Ah, gods! It took a bear-witch to make an honest peer!” He thrust out one big hand. “I like you better for it, lady. You keep that young princess safe now, mind?”
I leaned down and clasped his hand, squeezing it warmly. “I swear I will do my utmost.”
The crowd liked that, too.
One by one they came to take their chances at the urn, escorted by the solicitous guardsmen. None of the first dozen had the good fortune to draw a gilded tile, but they bore their failures in good spirits. Many of them took the opportunity to beg blessings of one or more of the priests on the dais.