Gnady held out his hand. “Done.”
They shook.
Catherine looked up from the two small piles of paper. “Mr. Stoddard, I’m sorry, but you didn’t win.”
Gnady’s spirit soared upward from the abrupt dip it made when she first called Stoddard’s name. One glance at his opponent told him Stoddard had just made the same trip in reverse. They both glared at her.
“But you only lost by one vote.” She fanned the ballots out on the small table. “Everybody can see for themselves.”
Gnady surveyed the room. Other winners and losers were being declared. Some of the winners looked more dejected than did the losers.
“Congratulations, Mr. Delegate,” Waterman shook his hand. “I meant what I said. If I can help.”
“Between us,” Gnady said, “we know a great deal. I would that you help me watch them”—he nodded toward the noisy room—“to make sure our people are not meanly used.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me.” Waterman moved off through the crowd.
A bell rang and the room went silent.
“Would the delegates please come up here by me?” Chandalar called out.
Gnady felt many eyes on him and wondered if the other delegates felt as embarrassed as he did.
He found himself in the middle of the line. It felt as though a thousand people crowded the room, staring at them.
“This can stop anytime soon,” a woman next to him muttered.
“From my right, over here, please introduce yourselves to the People.” Chandalar made it sound like an order.
“I’m Blue Bostonman,” the large woman said. “From Aniak.” Gnady could see that she would be a difficult customer if she felt the goods were shoddy.
“Fredrik Seetamoona, from Elim.”
“Ain’t that an Eskimo name?” someone shouted from the crowd.
“My dad was Yu’pik, but my mom was Dená. How many of you are Dená and nothing else?”
Gnady liked Fredrik’s sand.
“I’m Paul Eluska, from Kokrines, and my granny was Eskimo from up at Anaktuvuk Pass.” He nodded at Fredrik. “Hell, me ’n’ him are probably cousins.”
The crowd laughed and the tension in the room, which Gnady hadn’t realized existed, broke.
“Eleanor Wright from Nulato.” She tossed her head and the long, blackshot-with-silver hair fanned briefly behind her stocky body. Her eyes defied one and all to cross her.
“My name is Claude Adams,” the small, slightly built man said. As he looked around at the crowd, light flashed off his spectacles. He spoke in a soft voice and Gnady knew this one was smarter than himself. “I am from Holy Cross and am part Russian, Eskimo, Aleut, Yankee, and Dená. I don’t how much of which, but it doesn’t matter because I am here tonight.”
Applause seemed to burst from the air.
The bell rang again.
“We have much to do,” Chandalar said. “Next.”
“I am Nicole Grey from Tanana. I will do the best I can.”
Gnady had seen her before, but not in Tanana. He couldn’t remember where it was, but he remembered she had the situation well in hand. It gnawed at him. Then he realized he stood next to her and all were waiting for him to speak.
“I am Gnady Ustinov from Old Crow. My grandfather was a promyshlennik who built an odinochka and settled down. The rest of my family is Dená and I was named for my grandfather. I own a trading post in Old Crow.”
He stopped and allowed himself to breathe, waiting for someone to object to his presence. The crowd now stared at the man next to him. He smiled; everybody on the Yukon knew Andrew.
“I am Andrew Isaac of the Dot Lake Dená. My male ancestors probably slipped into a lot of strange beds, but I’m all Athabascan as far as I know.”
The laughter and applause died quickly.
“Anna Samuel from Fort Yukon.” She possessed extraordinary beauty and yet had to be in her middle-to-late years. She exuded self-possession.
“I am Alexandr Titus from Minto. We got Russian blood in the family, and pretty near every other kind, too. I got cousins in every village in Dená
country. I’m proud to be here.”
“Joanne Kaiser, I have a small lodge in St. Anthony. I always give full value and I’ve never let anyone go away hungry. My mother was from the Republic of California and my dad was a Russian-Dená soldier. But I’m here to help.”
“Kurt Bachmann, from Klahotsa.” The large man glowered at them all, made sure nobody else was speaking before he again opened his mouth. “I’m here to protect what is mine, what I have earned. I suspect what we just did is illegal, even treasonous, and I’m going to make sure everything follows the letter of the Czar’s law.”
“Mr. Bachmann”—Chan’s voice sounded cold enough to shatter—“this is a revolution. We no longer wish to follow the Czar’s laws and the purpose of this body is to successfully throw off the Russian yoke. Do you understand that?”
“So who’s gonna run things, make the rules, enforce what laws?”
“We’re working on it. But there is no way we can allow anyone loyal to the Czar to remain in this room. You either swear to serve the Dená People above all others, to fight their enemies, and defend their borders, or you leave now.”
“I’m not a Dená, but I live here, I own a business, I serve as leader in my village. What you just asked me to swear allegiance to is everything I believe in, but why are we fighting the Czar?”
“You’re in the fight, Mr. Bachmann, either on our side or the Czar’s. Which is it?”
“I’m with you, of course, you’ve got me surrounded.” He laughed and looked around at the others. Nobody laughed with him.
“Would the next delegate please introduce himself?”
“Joshua Golovin,” the big man said, looking over at Bachmann. “Chena Redoubt, where the Russians treat you like moose shit. I need help to show them the error of their ways.”
“I am Wing Demoski, from Beaver, I used to teach school with my husband until Cossacks killed him and thought they killed me. Soon after, I joined the DSM and killed all three of the animals who took my old life. I have been killing the Czar’s Cossacks and promyshlenniks ever since. I believe in the Dená Republik!”
Everyone in the room applauded.
Gnady felt a thrill of pure pleasure when the last delegate spoke.
“I am Ambrose Ambrose from the village of Nabesna, on the Nabesna River. We’re all related to everyone in Northway, just across the river.”
“I thank everyone for their participation,” Chandalar said in a loud voice, “and now ask all but the delegates to leave the building. We have much to do.”
“We can’t watch?” an old man asked in a querulous tone.
“I’m sorry.” Chandalar’s voice seemed made of stone. “But since we don’t know everyone, we can’t let anyone not on the council or their immediate advisors sit in and listen. We will make reports at the end of each day. Thank you all for understanding.”
Gnady waved Waterman Stoddard over. “You’re my advisor, okay?”
“Thanks. But let’s call me chief of advisors, that way we can get more people in here.”
Chandalar’s voice boomed out, “Delegates, introduce your advisors if they exist.”
Questions raised about the definition of “advisor” were quickly answered. During the quick debate more than one person yawned.
“We have a growing army,” Chandalar said. “We need a general to run it. If there is anyone you know who can do a better job than Slayer-of-Men, I want to hear about it right now.”
Slayer-of-Men was known the length and breadth of the Yukon and Kuskokwim Rivers. He had visited every village, every odinochka, every squalid “Indian town” clustered at the edge of the redoubts. Wherever he went, he insulted those who looked at the world differently, and recruited every malcontent he met.