Free The Mazer by C.K. Nolan

to debate and resolve the crisis that threatens our island. As a result of our, er, discussion, and to abide by the law of our land, an election was held to appoint a new Legator. We cast our votes, and Great Aspen has made his choice. The leaf glows. Wystan and I will go up to the tree branch, along with our Librarian and Treasurer, as well as three public representatives. I shall remove the leaf from the tree and place it in this envelope. We shall then return to declare the result to you all.”
    Chatter filled the room. Bassan joined Filibert, and they followed Wystan and Trevello up to the Albatorium roof. Behind them, the three island men: tall, handsome Arpad of the Homestead guard; Sheridan the shipwright from Deep Dock, a large man with whom Bassan had spoken occasionally on his trips to Oakenwood, and who had a surprisingly gentle voice; and Osbert from Quagfen, a fisherman who resembled a drowned rat, his damp clothes sticking to his bony frame and his sodden shoes squeaking as he trod up the steps after them.
    There wasn’t much room up here. They gathered closely together to watch Trevello step up to a thin branch where a leaf gleamed in the shadow of dawn. Trevello took out a small knife, cut off the leaf, and put it in his envelope. He gave this to Arpad, and the Homesteader led the company down the stairs through the Legator’s chamber and back into the Session.
    Arpad placed the envelope on the lectern. Those seated leaned forward. Those at the back inched closer to the benches. Harold balanced on the window ledge, peering over their heads towards Medrella, still sitting, Filibert, now taking his seat, Arpad, Sheridan and Trevello, standing at the lectern, Osbert, joining his fellow Quagfenners on the bench, Wystan, to one side, watching Bassan.
    Bassan was not unaware of Wystan’s gaze. It was difficult to know whether to sit or stay standing, so it was better to just stay where he was, behind the dais, looking at the top of Filibert’s graying, balding head, a testament to the years all of them had spent in this place, working, serving, planning, plotting. How slowly the time had passed! People said that with age, time flies faster, but for Bassan, the years seemed to have stretched on and on, as if time had never started in the first place. But on this day, this very day, time could start again.
    The first light of dawn crept through the windows of the Session. Trevello invited Sheridan to open the envelope. The shipwright’s hands shook. He withdrew the glowing leaf, held it up, and softly spoke the name written on its midrib.
    “Silva.”
     
    ***
     
    “Who?”
    “Silva! By all the coin of Ashenwood!”
    “Silva? Zossimo’s Silva?”
    “It can’t be little Silva in Oakenwood, can it? She’s only a baby!”
    “Who’d have thought! A woman!”
    “Are you sure about that leaf, Trevello? Whatever is Great Aspen thinking?”
    Trevello had calmed them, told them he would confirm the name with the Aspen, and returned to the roof with Sheridan and Wystan. Guards stood at the door: nobody was to leave.
    Arpad was chatting to the Homesteaders behind the public gallery, his blue eyes darting around the room, hazel hair falling about his face, a smooth hand holding the back of a bench. Osbert, dark, thin, shivered in his seat in clammy clothes, listening to his wife whispering in his ear as she patted his forehead with a kerchief. Medrella sat straight, a butterfly brooch pinning her hair back, one chestnut curl escaping onto the nape of her fine neck. Filibert, doubtless searching for some tasty morsel, rummaged in the bag on his lap.
    Bassan shifted from one foot to another, looking down at the floor. He’d have to get down to the laboratory as soon as possible. Something had gone wrong, and he’d need to put it right. What had happened? How had Silva’s name come up? Surely nobody had voted for her! Had there been some sort of conspiring going on in the Session before the vote? No, couldn’t