When he rejoined Orain in their carriage, Adred told her, “I’ve kept my father’s diaries, and every letter he ever sent me. There was something he said to me once that tells me, more than anything, why he chose to live the way he did. He said to me, ‘Everyone wants to change society, but no one is willing to change himself.’ You see? Maybe I’ve fallen short of that. My father was certainly not a revolutionary. I don’t think he would have been able to comprehend just what it means to be a revolutionary—not in the way I mean it. Yet he believed in the basic goodness of people, and he always did what he could to help others. He always had time to listen to a friend, yet he seldom complained about himself. He thought the best way to change things was by example, and to give society time. Time to adjust and change and make the right decisions. He truly believed that eventually the strongest ideas, the most human and humane ideas, and the best in us, will come forward, that it won’t be thwarted, and that society will accept them.” He wiped his face and rubbed his neck. “I wonder now if it’s too late for that.”
On their way back to the palace, Adred directed the driver to take the coach through the Pilusian Gate and follow the Ferian Road outside the city walls. Once under the Ferian Arch and past the small shops, hostels and inns that cluttered the northwest approach to the capital, the carriage entered open farmlands and vineyards. Sparse forests steadily grew denser, the hills sloped steeply upward, and occasional road markers indicated the property of aristocrats and landowners.
“Where are we going?” Orain asked.
But Adred ignored her as he pushed his head out his window to tell the driver, “The next road to your left!”
As he settled himself in his seat again, Orain tugged his sleeve.
“Where are we going?”
“To my father’s house. I haven’t been there in years.”
“Years?” Orain was astounded at how casually he admitted it.
Adred answered her in a quiet voice. “There’s really nothing there any longer. I sold everything and locked up the house; everything’s secured. I leased some of the land.”
“You never told me about that.”
Adred shrugged. “I decided I wanted to travel.”
The driver steered the coach down the next road; it was marked by a spare stone marker engraved with the sign of Adred’s father’s family’s seal. Very shortly the road dipped, and the family mansion came into view. It sat behind a tall iron gate partially overgrown with small trees and grass, and the gardens that had once surrounded the house bloomed with weeds and wild flowers. Otherwise, everything seemed intact: boarded and chained.
“Look.” Orain pointed, as the coach drew still before the gate.
Adred stepped out, walked around the coach, and approached the gate. Suspended from an iron chain run around its hinges was a notice carved into an oak board:
PROPERTY OF THE ATHADIAN GOVERNMENT
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted
He stood where he was for a few long moments, staring past the fence at the house and its grounds. Adred kicked his right foot several times in the road, which sent up clouds of dust. He didn’t look back at Orain, simply stared at the house where he had been born and grown up. Then he turned around and, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket, returned to the coach and climbed in.
“They haven’t taken down the sign yet,” was all he said to Orain.
The driver turned the coach around, and it creaked and jostled back down the road.
* * * *
On their return to the capital through the north side of town, Adred and Orain witnessed more changes that had occurred during their absence. Streets that had once thronged with shoppers, sellers, and travelers were now quiet; only occasional lines of the poor and unemployed passed from shadow to shadow, doorway to doorway. Closer to the center of the city, as they moved toward the urban homes and apartments of the capital’s gentry, they saw signs of abandonment. Some of the homes they passed appeared to be as empty as Adred’s father’s estate; apparently the occupants had moved away. Other buildings had been fortified with freshly built walls and gates blockading access from the street. There were no signs of violence—only mute suggestions of tension and fear.
Waiting.…
Adred spoke not at all; and Orain, too, was quiet, as the carriage made its way back to the palace.
* * * *
When he returned, full of excitement, from the Royal Library, Omos found Galvus sitting on the balcony outside his room.
“I’ve never seen so many books!” he exclaimed. “How large a building is that?”
“The library?” Galvus said. “Ten stories.”
“It must have everything ever written!”
Galvus laughed. “Pretty much so, it does.” But he seemed preoccupied with the papers he was holding.
“And there were books in there that are censored everywhere else. Why do they allow that?”
Galvus shrugged. “They have to be kept somewhere for someone to keep an eye on them. But you’re a guest of the palace. No one will interfere with you in there.”
“They had complete sets of Radulis—every edition! The Essays of Oson…all the satires of Dimulis…Evad-eseth’s Liberty.… And more poetry and philosophy than I’ve seen in my life! And art! That portrait of King Evarris must have taken years!”
Galvus nodded. “I seem to remember grandfather grumbling about that one.”
As his enthusiasm settled, Omos noticed his friend’s mood. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
But Omos walked to him and crouched beside Galvus’s chair and took his hand. “Something’s wrong. Are you just tired?”
“I suppose so.” Galvus rubbed his eyes with his free hand and settled his papers and notes in his lap. “I’m just thinking.” He regarded Omos keenly. “If you don’t want to stay here—I mean,” Galvus spoke quietly, “not right now, but eventually—if you want to go back to Sulos, it’s all right.”
Omos was very surprised. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just…homesickness, I suppose. I’m thinking about everything that’s happened.”
“I don’t want to be anywhere but here, Galvus. With you.”
Galvus held his hand and squeezed it, then admitted, “We have a lot to do. We’re going to have a fight on our hands. I think I’m tired of the fight even before we start it. Tired of everything.”
“Lie down. Take a nap before supper.”
“I think I may do that.” Galvus smiled, leaned over, and kissed him. “Thank you.”
“I owe you everything, Galvus. And I love you very much.”
“And I love you.” He rubbed his eyes again and yawned.
Omos determinedly got to his feet, grabbed Galvus’s hand, and pulled him out of his chair. “Right now,” he insisted. “I’ll wake you up when your mother and Count Adred get back.”
Galvus nodded and yawned again as he let Omos lead him away from all of the papers, all of the work that needed to be done. Everything.…
* * * *
Orain and Adred were quiet during supper; Galvus noticed it and wondered what had passed between them during the afternoon. He was not able to inquire, however, with the Imbur Ogodis present at the table: Ogodis’s garrulousness and his rude comments about the Salukadians seemed wholly out of place among the company in the Feasting Hall.
When supper was finished, Elad called for the evening’s entertainment, and over wine and sweetmeats and juice-flavored ices, the company listened to singers and enjoyed brief ballets staged by the throne’s subsidized repertory companies. Ogodis’s ceaseless opinionatedness now focused on flaws in the performances, and he made certain to stress to Elad that on his next visit to Athad, he himself would see to it that he brought with him some of the dance troupes from Sugat: they were glorious.
Shortly, when he had had his fill finally of the imbur’s pontifications, Elad rose and took Salia’s hand, kissed it
, and announced to the company that he would retire for the remainder of the evening. He informed Galvus and Adred that he would be in one of his private chambers off the main room upstairs, and should they desire to have a word with him, or share the evening’s final glass of wine with him, they could find him there.
Salia smiled at her husband as he made his way from the room, followed by two servants.
Galvus and Adred shared a glance and waited until the king had gone, then casually finished their desserts. Decisively, they ignored Ogodis’s stares. The man was a petulant child, and no doubt Elad, by not asking the imbur’s permission to retire for the evening in his own palace, had offended the pompous jack.
Enough of that. When they had finished their plates of fruit and flavored ice, the prince and the count excused themselves, begged the imbur’s indulgence and that of Orain and Omos and the others there, Abgarthis and a few favorite ministers, and followed the path King Elad had taken up to the third floor of the palace.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Adred knew that Galvus felt apprehensive about speaking openly with Elad. It was not that the young man did not trust his uncle; neither did Galvus fear that Elad would threaten him with punishment for his beliefs. The king was too sentimental regarding his nephew to do that, and Adred suspected, too, that Elad felt a responsibility toward Galvus, the only representative, at least so far, of a new generation from any of the three princes of the throne. Yet the young man was naturally troubled; he might, this evening, speak eloquently—his arguments might privately sway Elad the man—yet Elad the king, for whatever reasons, could dismiss Galvus’s protests as out of hand simply because of his authority.
All of this crossed Adred’s mind as he and Galvus were ushered into Elad’s private chamber. Adred was very surprised, therefore, when the prince immediately moved into important matters; and he was even more surprised with the clarity of judgment and the practical balance of thought that Galvus displayed. The young prince had seen much, experienced much, and learned much, and he was forthright and persuasive.
“What is most important,” Galvus began, directly upon Elad’s motioning them to be seated, “is that you gain and maintain the trust of the people. Ninety percent of our people see the other ten percent living off what that ninety percent produces—ten percent of the people, your throne, contributing, in essence, nothing of consequence. They live off what the ninety percent give them. Or what they take from them. And we call this competition? Business? And we praise our businessmen and bankers for their, their acumen and brilliance? Then praise wolves for eating sheep! Surely wolves have the same business acumen! Very brilliant, those wolves!
“Uncle, here is what the people see. Each of them might as well be a servant— Please, hear me out. A servant, someone obligated to other people, and no more than half a person. But the servant is still regarded as his own individual, is he not? Morally, he’s held responsible for that, and legally, but in practice, the servant is not completely human. In practice, that servant is a dog.” He was thinking of Euis, Count Mantho’s servant, in a rage as he died. “This is a dangerous contradiction. If the servant is human and moral and his own person, then let’s treat him that way. He’s at least the equal of the men of your council! If the servant is no more than a dog, an animal—well, then, let’s not pretend that he is a person. Let’s be frank about how little we value the servant and see where that leads us. I think we’ve been doing exactly that, and now where do we find ourselves?
“Sire, our nation is in a condition of stasis. We’ve developed a subterranean society that produces only crime and poverty and ignorance. The wealthy are trying to hide from that world. But we’re losing educated people and men and women in business and hard workers every day this way. If what we want is millions of servants barely staying alive and pretending that that’s the best thing for empire, then we have that now. But it’s not working. We must take the next step. We must take it, or it will be taken for us. We must erase all the barriers between the ten percent on top and the ninety on the bottom.”
“And this is the inspiration for the revolution?” Elad asked dubiously.
“Yes,” Galvus warned him. “This is the inspiration for the revolution. We’ve no one to blame but ourselves—I say that as your nephew. The boots I’m wearing cost enough to feed whole families for a year. And how many pairs of boots do I have? I don’t need these boots, and I don’t want them! I need a society in which I have one less pair of boots but families that don’t starve.
“And, Uncle, this is why you must make a commitment to gain and maintain the trust of all those people. Take away my boots. Feed the people. You can’t treat them as servants, not any longer. You can’t tell yourself that they’re individuals and moral beings if you don’t give them the ability to be individuals. And we can’t pretend any more that the bankers are doing things that will somehow elevate all of those…pieces of furniture or help them. We both know that that’s a convenient lie. Making rich people richer helps poor people? It’s never happened; it never could happen; and it’s not happening now. Wolves will stop eating sheep before it happens.
“Sire, if we don’t take a bold stand now to correct this crisis, then we’re going to continue to be destroyed by a handful of people who want all of the power and privilege and money for themselves. They’re sick. They are ill. And their disease is killing us while it’s killing them.
“Money isn’t the only thing that people want! We act as though the desire for money is the only incentive people have to accomplish anything for themselves. We’ve become a society where everything now has to have some monetary value! Food that grows in the ground now has a certain price; love, given to us by the gods, can be had for a price; beauty…justice…all of these things are treated as though they can be manipulated in the marketplace. If our ideals are of so little value that they each have a price, then they’re not really ideals. And then money really does become the only thing of value, the only thing people respect.
“Sire, I like money. Money is necessary—but it is not the only necessary thing! I’ve seen good people mocked because they do what they do for love, for love of their families, not for money. This is what we’ve become. Your crown—you’re working very hard to be the best king and the best sort of man that you can be. Can you yourself put a price on that? How much money is that worth? How much shall I pay you to be the best of kings? Did my mother raise me to be a man because she saw a monetary profit in it?”
“Nephew,” Elad told the prince, “you argue well. You outdo your hero, Radulis. But I’ll tell you what I told Count Adred a short while ago. You are asking me to change human nature. Shall I change human nature?”
“It’s not human nature, Uncle. It’s human natures. It’s our greedy nature, and our loving nature, and our wise nature, and our best nature. It’s all of them. You can encourage the best natures in us. Reward the best of us. The greedy will never fail; the dishonest will always thrive. They find a way, like weeds in the garden. The weeds are always there. It’s the flowers and the fruit and the good vegetables that need encouragement, sire. The weeds try to choke them. It’s the nature of weeds to choke the flowers and the good fruit. Extract the weeds.
“Uncle, this is my fear. Conditions have deteriorated so greatly that we can’t simply stop what we’re doing and hope that the weeds will die. We have to pull out the weeds. We have to create a new society, sire. Private enterprise should exist to benefit society; society should not exist to benefit private enterprise. And this is why you must gain and maintain the trust of the people. If you can assure the citizens of this empire that what I’ve described is your intention, as well as their vision, they’ll allow you the time you need to effect it. But, Uncle, if they see that you’re lying or vacillating, or any of your ministers—my fear is that they’ll consolidate their numbers, and they’ll burn this palace to the ground and all of us with it. I know what I’m saying. If they can’t share in all that we have, then no one will
be allowed to keep it. ‘The best of intentions thwarted creates the worst of reprisals.’”
“And that is a quote from your philosopher.”
“It is. But it might have been written by the gods on the day they created us. Your crown, the revolution is a very real thing. The people who riot and attack the city guards are small in numbers, but they’re only the most obvious. Every person who feels cheated by an employer is a revolutionary; every person who can’t find work, who can’t get the education he wants or who can’t buy the bread she needs for her family, is a revolutionary. Every mother who sees her children suffering is a revolutionary. They may not have it in them to throw stones or attack law officers, but in their hearts, they are the revolution. They’re not like your bankers; they don’t want everything; they only want something.
“Your appointees have done a very thorough job in the cities of beheading and imprisoning nearly every leader who had any authority or any intelligence. Those were the leaders who spoke with voices of moderation. It was only because their voices had been silent for so long that they seemed radical when they finally spoke up. But the government overreacted and silenced them, and now we’re left with people who speak for no one but themselves. They are extreme. They’re not moderate. And they’ll do much harm while claiming to do good. But they’re the only ones left that anyone listens to. We’re on a knife edge, sire.”
“I’m being very patient, Galvus.”
“I know that, your throne. And I’m very nervous. But I must speak from my heart.”
“And I must speak from mine. You are asking me,” Elad said, “to do a great deal in a very short space of time.”
“I am, yes. But you’ve already begun it with your notice concerning the workers’ sirots. What,” Galvus asked, “has been the response to that?”
Elad frowned. “In a word, reluctance,” he said sourly. “Many of the ministers in my government are determined to do otherwise than I have commanded. They are indulging in every bureaucratic delay imaginable.”
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