by Joy Demorra
There was a rumble of mirth from around the room as Vlad suppressed another eye roll. He’d always known granting the vampires land on Eyrie all those centuries ago had been a polite form of exile—a means of keeping them from sinking their fangs into politics, even indirectly. But truthfully, Vlad had grown rather fond of the place and his role as island steward.
“Just the way we like it, my lord.” Unable to help himself, he flashed the honorable speaker a toothy smile. “Dreary and riotless.”
Grunting, Woolcroft ignored that last remark as he began leafing through his ledger for the paperwork Vlad had been forced to submit bi-monthly for the last three hundred years like clockwork. “Let’s look at the numbers, shall we? Ah, I see you’ve increased your revenue by exactly zero again, Viscount. Well done.”
While it was said with scorn, Vlad inclined his head anyway, accepting the backhanded compliment gracefully. “Thank you.”
“And what’s this here?” Woolcroft squinted at the sheet of paper in front of him. “A request for further land development? What the devil are you up to now, Blutstein? More of your deranged experiments?”
Another ripple of laughter rose from the assembly. Vlad resisted the urge to pull the nearest shadow around himself and hide. Vlad was—what those gathered around the room referred to darkly as—an innovator. He adored the sciences and welcomed change. It was an unusual trait in a vampire. Even rarer still in politics.
“Something like that,” he agreed cagily. He’d been hoping to slip this request by unnoticed, but with every eye still trained on him, he was acutely aware of how this could turn out if he didn’t speak his piece well. His fingers itched for a cigarette, but this wasn’t the time or place.
“It’s not more damn windmills, is it?”
“Actually, it’s something more of a social experiment.”
“Like your free schools and your free hospitals for the needy,” Twoforths sneered while Vlad regarded the man calmly. Twoforths was decisively not a modernist. He was, in fact, so far entrenched in the past he was virtually buried six feet under. Although regretfully, Vlad mused, only metaphorically.
“They’re not free,” he countered levelly, “they’re publicly funded.”
“By taxes!”
“Yes.” Vlad nodded. “That is indeed how taxes work, my lord. They pay for things. Like roads, poorhouses, schools…” He flashed the honorable representative a particularly nasty and pointed smile. “New parliamentary buildings that exceeded their budget by several hundred thousand pounds and have yet to reach full completion. You know, that kind of thing.”
“And what is it you are proposing to build?” Lord Woolcroft interjected before the squabbling could start in earnest. “It says here, ‘trade hall.’”
“Are you going to build an indoor market?” Lord Wintercrow—a comparatively young fellow with cherubic cheeks and an exquisite taste in tie pins—asked, his tone light and teasing as he addressed Vlad directly. “It’d keep the rain off.”
“No,” Vlad said, though he could feel the part of his brain that was always doodling in the margins of his thoughts scramble to jot that down for later. He resisted the urge to tap his fang. “But that’s not a half-bad idea…”
“Oh, ye Gods,” Twoforths grumbled. “Don’t give him notions.”
Ignoring the elderly man, Vlad carried on, “What I am proposing is a trade hall for skilled laborers. A designated space for them to gather and work, provide training for apprentices. Another school, if you like. But with the means to do other things as well.”
“Such as?” Woolcroft prompted.
Vlad braced himself. “We’ve all read about the riots in Hartford.” He gestured at the ledger in front of him. “Skilled men and women, rioting in the streets because they cannot afford to feed their families.”
“Perhaps they ought to work harder,” Twoforths rejoined.
Speaking over him, Vlad continued, “I hope to avoid such riots by allowing the skilled workers of Eyrie to form a representative committee. Elected members from within their own factions, who may peacefully work to resolve issues with government sanction. A union, if you will. At present, they are operating out of the town hall, but we feel a designated space would be better suited to the task. Much of their time would also be spent working on the construction, giving substantial work to the area for quite a while, and avoiding any…” he struggled to find the right word, “unpleasantness. This request, my lords, comes from the workers, and I have spoken to them at le—”
“You let them congregate and debate with you?!” Lord Twoforths demanded incredulously, turning the same color as a shriveled and belligerent blueberry.
All hell broke loose, several of the jeering lords leaping to their feet, shaking their papers angrily at him. Vlad sighed as he lowered his eyes to the desk in front of him and fiddled with the cigarette case in his pocket. Sometimes he forgot how easy it was to see how things ought to be when you had nothing ahead of you but time. Time and the weight of too much history dragging at your heels. And history was repeating itself with alarming alacrity. The people were Unhappy with a capital U. Vlad felt it in his bones like the ache of an old wound before the onset of a storm. Grain prices were soaring; unemployment was rampant. Not to mention the ongoing wars in the West. Revolutions had been set ablaze by lesser tinderboxes of discontent.
“My lords, please, you make it sound like a tavern brawl.” He raised his voice to be heard above the din. “We are merely trying to facilitate peace, as your predecessors charged us to do when you gave Eyrie into the safe holding of the Count.”
Indicating Vlad with a disdainful sweep of his arm, Twoforths sneered, “And where is he this time? Too busy to grace us with his presence? What does your father think of your meddling, boy?”
Vlad, heedless of the outline of kohl around his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. Sometimes he really hated looking as young as he did. Everyone always extolled the virtues of eternal youth, but no one ever thought about what it would be like to be four hundred years old and still get called boy by decrepit despots less than one-fifth your age.
“The Count, as ever, remains a humble and loyal servant of the Empire,” Vlad said lightly. “And if you would prefer his presence, that can easily be arranged.”
Silence fell so abruptly it clanged into place. Several nervous coughs followed as members of the cabinet resumed their seats. It was true the constituency of Eyrie belonged to his father, but Parliament had long since turned a blind eye to Vlad showing up in his stead. One vampire, it seemed, was as good as another—especially when one of them didn’t have quite so worrying a smile.
Confident he had their attention again, Vlad continued, “I know what I am proposing seems radical, but in truth, gentlemen, it has been done before. Your own clubs were founded on such principles. And we do, dare I say it, live in radical times, and if we do not bend, we will be broken on the wheel of progress. We must give people something,” Vlad implored.
“So, we address the baser issues.” Twoforths waved a bony hand vaguely in the air, his temperament somewhat mollified. “We promise to raise wages of skilled labor, in due time, and we release extra food to the poorhouses. But I see no reason to let them fraternize over it.”
As a general murmur of agreement went up, Vlad bit the inside of his cheek, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. “My lord, be reasonable,” he implored, “do you really think they won’t meet and talk among themselves in public houses up and down the country? Do you truly believe they aren’t already doing that? What do you propose to that? A ban on alehouses?”
“Well—” Woolcroft stroked his chin thoughtfully “—that has been done before…”
“Yes,” Vlad said as though he were speaking to a small child. “And you can ask King Duncan the Headless how that worked out for him. Really, my lords, it’s not Ancient Ecrecian. What I am proposing would bring order to the way certain things are done. A certain expectation of…” he tested the word on the
tip of his tongue, “of discipline if you will. After all, what is more favorable? Peaceful negotiations through unionization, or riots in the streets?”
“Riots can be put down,” Wintercrow said. Vlad winced internally; he had such high hopes for the boy and then the young fool had to go and say a thing like that.
“Yes, but at great cost to both life and finance. More so than we already lose to injury and starvation. Not to mention the expense of having to pull valuable soldiers from the front lines. Unless the honorable gentlemen present intend to fund private militias to keep the peace?”
Vlad watched as the thought made its way through the gathered assembly like a stone skipped over murky waters. He’d missed some in the initial throw, but eventually, the ripples caught up with them—aided on by the weight of their greed pulling them under. Raising a private army did not come cheaply. And while it was true, even though there were brutes from all walks of life who would happily step on the necks of others for a shilling a day, there was still a great deal of damage a starving man armed with the tools of his trade could do.
Lord Woolcroft cleared his throat. “And this… social experiment of yours—you’d be funding it, would you?”
“Yes, completely,” Vlad agreed. It wasn’t as though he was saving up for old age.
“And you’d oversee the running of it,” Woolcroft persisted, “make sure it doesn’t get out of hand?”
“Of course,” Vlad said, “I plan to be involved from the ground up. Just as I am with the schools.” While it was still in the early stages, universal education had already made a marked difference on the children of Eyrie. The problem was it was still too new to see the full results yet. But what results he had were promising. Even Lady Margarete had commented on it.
“And if your idea works?”
Vlad lifted his arms in a minute shrug. “If it works, then perhaps the idea has merit and may be expanded upon. And if it doesn’t…” He spread his hands wide while offering an impish smile that he knew made the most of his youthful looks. “Well, there’s always the indoor market idea.”
That got a laugh from the collective gathering, and Woolcroft arched an eyebrow at him for his cheek, muttering, “Indeed.”
“But do you truly think something like that might work?” Wintercrow seemed genuinely intrigued by the notion. “This… union idea of yours. You think it might stop the riots?”
It’s not my idea, Vlad thought, I’m just the person you’re willing to listen to. Aloud he said, “My lord, if you want my honest opinion? It is my utmost belief that an action of this nature will eventually benefit us all. A happy, prosperous workforce is a productive workforce. It may not be of immediate benefit to our coffers and will take several years for us to reap the benefits, but we do not all of us get to see the trees of the seeds we sow.”
“Except you,” Twoforths countered. He didn’t even bother to hide the way his lip curled when he looked at Vlad.
“Except me,” Vlad conceded. “Though I assure you I gain nothing personal from this endeavor.”
“Poppycock,” Twoforths snarled back, his face somehow turning an even deeper shade of purple. “It’s not enough we let you people have the run of that island; now you want to have a say in how we run the Empire! You supernaturals talk of cost in abstract terms, but it’s not your livelihood at risk. It never is with your kind.”
Vlad pinched the bridge of his nose again as Woolcroft ineffectively banged his gavel for silence as another verbal fray broke out. When he looked up, it was to find General Howlzein watching him with bright yellow eyes.
There was little love lost between vampires and werewolves. But as the only non-humans on the council, the two occasionally shared the odd moment of solidarity. Usually in the form of an exasperated stare down the length of the table. But to Vlad’s surprise, the werewolf intervened, his voice a dangerous low growl. “Your kind?”
The effect was immediate. Silence descended as the sound of his voice skittered down the spines of everyone present like gravel sliding over sheet metal. Hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary survival instincts responded to the dominant predator in the room and sought the nearest tree to climb, to no avail.
Flustered, Twoforths loosened his necktie. “Well, I err… That is to say, vampires…”
“I agree with Blutstein,” the werewolf spoke over him, and Vlad nearly fell over in shock at the pronouncement. “I think the idea has merit.”
“As do I,” Wintercrow added. “I think it will be jolly interesting to see the results.”
“Well then!” Lord Woolcroft sounded as surprised as Vlad felt. “All those in favor of sanctioning the grant of land, say aye?”
There was a murmur of assent from around the table, far more than Vlad had been expecting. But still not enough to carry the motion forward.
“All those against?”
A louder chorus of voices led by a sneering Twoforths rang out, and Vlad knew his proposal was sunk.
As if punctuating that realization, Lord Woolcraft gave a decisive nod. “Very well, motion denied. Gentlemen, I do believe we are concluded for the day.” The deputy prime minister snapped the gavel down on the table and the assembled gathering broke apart, heading for the doors in droves.
Circling the table to stand near Vlad as he donned his top hat and gloves, Wintercrow said, “Bally bad luck, old sport. For what it’s worth, you’ve got my vote if you keep pushing for it.”
“Thank you.” Vlad inclined his head, wondering just what exactly the young man was angling for with this sudden show of interest. He ran through the delicate array of diplomatic tools at his disposal and opted for the hammer. “Forgive me, my lord, but I had rather thought you might be against it. Your father was always adamantly opposed to workers reform…”
“He is.” The young man flashed Vlad a wicked smile as he adjusted the seams of his gloves with meticulous care. “But it’s not his chair anymore, is it?”
Ah, well then, the young fool was voting out of rebellious spite rather than reason. Vlad could work with that. “Indeed no,” he murmured, feeling an inappropriate smile tugging at his own mouth and not bothering to hide it. “Please remember me fondly to your father; I do so miss our conversations.”
“Oh, I don’t see how he could have forgotten you, Blutstein, but I will do so with the utmost hate and sincerity.” He doffed his top hat, flashing Vlad a sly little wink as he turned to leave. “Good day, Viscount.”
Vlad watched him go, not entirely unamused by the exchange. If the boy wasn’t such an obvious rake, Vlad might have thought him a suitable match for Riya.
“He’s too young for you,” a low voice rumbled from across the table.
Vlad turned back to regard Howlzein with as much affront as such a remark deserved. “Oh please, as if I would. The boy’s barely out of short trousers.”
Howlzein snorted in return, settling more comfortably into the chair Lord Twoforths had so recently vacated. “I swear they get younger every year.”
“It certainly feels that way,” Vlad said, “although I suspect it is merely we who are getting older.” He busied himself with his papers, shuffling them back into order and slipping them away into his folder with exaggerated care. When he was finished, Howlzein was still watching him, waiting. “Is there something I can do for you, General?”
The werewolf seemed to hesitate for a moment, then reached inside his dress uniform jacket to slide a letter across the table toward Vlad.
Vlad very pointedly did not pick it up. It was a vampire thing. “What’s this?”
“It is my understanding that there is an opening for the position of Captain of the Eyrie Guard. I have a candidate I’d strongly like you to consider for the post.”
“Why? What did they do wrong?” Vlad asked. After the last captain’s disappearance, he couldn’t imagine anyone worthwhile wanting the position. He flipped the envelope over with his pen to examine the seal on the back. The emblem of a wolf’s head raised mid h
owl gleamed back at him. When the General didn’t reply, Vlad sighed and cracked the seal, unfolding the letter to read through its contents. He got no further than the first line before he looked up, eyebrows raised. “A werewolf. You want me to put a werewolf in charge of the Eyrie Guard. Right under the Count’s nose.”
“Captain Northland is an exemplary officer,” Howlzein answered, clearly expecting some protest and having come prepared. He slid another letter across the table to Vlad, this one marked with his own seal. Vlad broke it open and began to read, only to realize that it included multiple pages. “He’s loyal, dependable, and one of the best damn scouts we ever had. I was sorry to lose him.”
“Which begs the question again, what did he do?” Vlad kept reading and winced when he found out. “Ah. I see.” He leaned back in his chair, considering. It really was an excellent letter of commendation, aside from the singular glaring problem it presented. “And what exactly do I get out of this? I mean, other than a werewolf in the coop?”
“Whatever you want,” Howlzein replied readily.
Vlad gave him an arch look. “Dear me, General, what a silly thing to say,” he admonished but allowed his curiosity to be piqued. “Close personal friend, is he?”
Howlzein snorted at his coy tone, giving him a hard stare in return. “Not in the way you mean. But it is personal… It’s a pack thing. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” Vlad queried, tilting his head to the side.
“You heard about the defeat in Bhalein last year? Northland tried to warn us that things were turning sour, but Parliament issued the order to stay put. Then Major Melrose died and…” He trailed off, taking in a deep breath. “Northland kept things together. He got as many people out as he could, but…”
“But then the shelling started, and it was a massacre,” Vlad finished for him, wincing in sympathy. Gods, he wanted a cigarette.
