The Vote (Magaritte 4/4)

Index: Our Better Wolves

Recap: The Scarlet Sarks, an elite squad of the Cagne of Perta, have returned home from a long deployment. Magaritte visited the Grove of Libitina, the Cagne's funerary grove, where she received her father's skull as momento. Mago Tenente Magaritte Aseni visited the Grove of Libitina where she received her father's skull as a momento. She then joined her friend, Vernia, to witness a crucial vote over the war budget in the Vericanti Senato. She and her Scarlet Sarks will be heading to the Western Front in just three days and she needed to discuss the political situation with Vernia—it's dire. Vernia revealed that she befriended Magaritte's father in her absence and told Magaritte of his last year. Magaritte didn't want to hear it.

The sun dipped toward the bright horizon in the west. The shadows grew long across the Piazza, and a chill set in, a reminder that it was in fact still winter. The senatori filed in for the reading of the bill.

The Segretario della Camera returned from the backrooms with a pristine new War Bill. When all had settled, she began her reading. It took almost an hour, and there was a fair bit of grumbling, but the body remained calm.

“Is it to your liking?” Vernia asked.

“It will do, I suppose.” In truth, it would barely slake Pigozi’s thirst. And other officers had already been pressuring him to call for a renegotiation of terms with the city.

“You can thank the Sovrano, but don’t get too comfortable. Arolio is surpassing Pigozi on the Consiglio, and Pigozi has been testing Arolio’s patience.” Eventually, Magaritte read between Vernia’s words, one of them would force the Sovrano’s finger onto the scale and Pigozi wasn’t making friends.

“That explains his mood.” Pigozi’s letters were sour.

The voting began. The scribes walked down the aisles, presenting each senatore with their personal ballots. They marked their votes, sealed them with their signet rings, and placed them in the gilded boxes carried by the next scribe, their eyes never leaving the slips as they passed between hands to box.

The ballot boxes were gathered at the Dais, broken open, and the ballots sorted and counted silently as the Segretario watched on. She was a study in composure as the count became clear and she reported it to the Presidente.

The little man nodded to her, exchanged some words, and without any announcement, the Segretario went back for a recount. It must be close, Magaritte thought. How could it be close? When that was done, she returned. The Presidente was not pleased. He sat back in his chair, sighed.

“The bill does not pass.”

Immediate uproar as they all pointed fingers. The stone came down and the Capitano followed it with a salvo of curses. Even Magaritte and Vernia stood should they need to flee his wrath. They were far too dignified to shout their offense into the Alta Camera.

“Gods, I really have let it slide,” Vernia said in a small voice.

“Please say the Sovrano will step in.”

“I wish he could. And so does he. He’s almost done with the High House, and so is everyone else. But he pruned so many flowers for Dockside—there’s not much to move them if they won’t move themselves. So, the remedies might be worse.” The Anarchia loomed like the darkened rotunda.

When the Capitano had cowed them enough, the Presidente spoke again. “We will reconvene in three days, at which time I expect this body to do its duty to the soldato of this Republic.”

The stone came down and that was that. The senatori began filing out, hardly a whiff of shame about them. Lucky for them the public wasn’t here.

Arolio was composed, still seated on the empty Dais. Magaritte wondered what twisted recompense he might exact on the senatori. He could not view the ballots himself, but he could divine well enough where this went wrong, with whom this went wrong; and as a political alchemist, he had all the tools required to transmute these shits for brains into gold for the Companies. Work your magic for us, you little weasel. Get me paid.

His neck craned ever so slightly up to Vernia.

She nodded in acknowledgement. “Arolio will be weeding the hedges tonight. I’ll throw some dirt into the beds, I guess.” She let out a long sigh. “Well, my love, I have some gardening to do.”

It would be a long three days in the Ministero. For the second time today, Magaritte realized, she felt robbed of someone. She could do nothing about it, her pride now incensed at the senatori; and her grief—yes, there was nothing else to call it though it felt so much like an unmooring fear, and Magaritte was most certainly not afraid nor could she afford to be unmoored; and Vernia certainly didn’t have time for that now—Magaritte’s grief chiseled deeper into her heart. She stood, awkward as Vernia turned to her. Her own expectations for Magaritte’s confidence evaporated with her call to duty, and Magaritte felt relieved.

“I’ll see you at the parade, my love.” Vernia put her palm to Magaritte’s cheek, and kissed her lightly on the forehead, at her left eye, her cheek. She bent down and put her forehead to the skull of Sepolto Aseni, like a true daughter.

“Take him, Vernia. Just take him. No need to drag him to another war.”

Vernia lifted him with the wrap falling over her hands and presented Magaritte’s father to her. “It can’t hurt him.”