The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

He bit into his sandwich, refusing the offer of a wineskin from a passing carouser.

  Town meetings were half a political event, half a valley-wide party. Since everyone in the valley took at least the afternoon off from work, the meetings would have been called far more often if they didn't require a petition by twenty-five percent of the voters.

  Behind the speaking platform and its chest-high ballot box, six whole sheep were slowly turning over cooking fires. A team of volunteer cooks took turns cranking the spits and basting the carcasses with wine and oil, slicing off sizzling pieces of meat, wrapping them in fresh-baked flatbread, handing out the sandwiches as they were ready.

  Someone had broached the whiskey bottles and beer barrels early. Karl noted with satisfaction that none of the Engineers or the warriors joined in the throng milling around the booze, filling their mugs with the trickling liquid fire.

  Good. Let the Joiners get drunk. Anyone who was passed out couldn't vote.

  Like most things democratic, Home town meetings were a zoo. There were many things to be said in favor of democracy, but neatness wasn't one of them. With the exception of the absent warriors and a few outlying landowners who were too busy with their own fields, all of the voters and most of the other citizens had elected to attend.

  He turned back to the dwarf. "Any landowners playing games?" Karl patted at the large leather pouch dangling from the right side of his belt. Still there; good.

  Ahira shook his head. "Not that I can tell. I'll keep my ear to the ground for complaints, though—assuming I'm still Mayor by nightfall."

  The law involving town meetings was explicit: Nobody was ever to be pressured not to attend, under penalty of fine, confiscation of property, or banishment, at the pleasure of the Mayor, depending on the nature of the pressure.

  That applied to nonvoting citizens as well as voters; it was important that nonvoter citizens get a taste of democracy. Get someone hooked on deciding his or her own fate, and the security of cropping quickly lost its appeal. The trouble with sharecropping back on the Other Side hadn't been the basic idea of trading labor on someone else's fields for a portion of the harvest and a place to live; the flaw was that it could easily become a form of debt slavery.

  In the short run, the cure for that was easy: Just make sure that there were more proven fields than there was labor to farm them. Let the landowners bid for labor, rather than letting laborers bid against each other.

  "Should be straightforward, assuming things go right." Ahira nibbled at his sandwich. "Although we're likely to run into at least one challenge."

  "Oh?"

  "See that kid over by the barbecue?"

  Karl followed Ahira's pointing finger. The subject was a boy of about twelve, dressed in dirt and rags. He was busily feeding himself, wolfing down sandwich after sandwich.

  "New arrival? What the hell is going on with supply?"

  "Not new; he's a voter, believe it or not. He's been here for the last quarter. Aveneer brought him in while you were gone. Umm, Peters? No, Petros—Petros is his name. Stubborn kid. He didn't want to crop and build up his grubstake, so he managed to sweet-talk Stanish out of the use of some rusty old tools, then proved a field halfway up the mountain, just above and beyond Engineer Territory. It's barely inside the wards. I don't know what he's been living on, or how he managed to clear the ground without the woodknife, but he did. Then—

  "Then, he trailed a flatbed carrying seed corn out to your fields, and picked up the spillings from the road—at least, that's what he says. More likely, he stole a few pounds of seed, but just try to prove it."

  "I don't think so." The theft of a few pounds of seed didn't bother Karl. But a twelve-year-old child looking like a famine victim did. "He's working a full-sized field all by himself?"

  "Yup. Scraggliest-looking field I've ever seen; I doubt that there's as much as one cornstalk per square meter. The rest is weeds. He sleeps under a brush lean-to. Last time I was inspecting, I saw what he had, and it's not much: crummy handmade bow and arrows, fire-hardened spear—probably lives off weeds and rabbit. There's at least one mountain lion working that area; likely he'll wake up in its belly some morning. Pitiful."

  "Damn." Karl shook his head. "You really think anyone's going to challenge his vote?"

  Ahira nodded. "He says he's fifteen, but nobody believes it. I think he should be in school, but you want to argue it with him?"

  "Not at all. You'll have to excuse me; this is someone I've got to meet. Go do some politicking."

  Karl worked his way through the crowd around the barbecue until he was next to the boy. It wasn't much of a problem; nobody wanted to be downwind of Petros.

  "Greetings," he said.

  The boy's eyes widened. "Are you who I think you are?"

  Karl stuck out a hand. "Karl Cullinane."

  Petros' eyes shot from side to side.

  "T'rar ammalli." Karl smiled. "I just want to shake your hand; no harm."

  The boy extended his own hand. Karl took it briefly, then released it, forcing himself not to wipe his own hand on his tunic. "I have a proposition for you."

  Petros shook his head. "I will not crop for anyone. My field is mine, and so is my vote. I don't need help."

  Then why do you look more like a Biafran refugee than anything else, kid? And has anybody ever told you what a bath is? But Karl didn't say that. A twelve-year-old former slave with this kind of pride, this kind of stubbornness, was a treasure. The trick was to make sure that this particular treasure survived, its pride intact. "Maybe not, but I could use yours—and not with cropping, either. You know Nehera?"

  "The smith? Of course. What of it?"

  "Take a walk with me," Karl said, taking a couple of sandwiches, then urging the boy away from the rest of the crowd.

  Petros shrugged and followed him.

  "I have a problem with Nehera," Karl said, handing the boy a sandwich and taking a bite out of the other one. "He hasn't gotten the idea that he's free. Thinks he has to belong to someone, and he figures that someone is me."

  "Poor you."

  Karl let a bit of steel creep into his voice. "You think I own people, boy? Ever?"

  "Well, no. I've heard about you."

  "Better, then. As I was saying, I can't break him of the notion."

  "Damn dwarves are supposed to make lousy slaves. That's what my mas—what someone who used to own me said."

  Karl shrugged. "That's the theory. His spirit's broken, though. And I don't know how to go about fixing it. That's your job, if you want it."

  "Broke spirit?" Petros snorted. "How am I supposed to fix that?"

  "If I knew how, I wouldn't need you—that's your problem. I want you to play apprentice one day out of three. I'll clear it with the Engineers. While he's busy teaching you about smithing, I want you to teach him how to be free. Interested?"

  "What's the pay?"

  "Not much. You get to work on your own tools, and while you're playing apprentice, you eat out of Nehera's pot. Might even pick up a few skills while you're at it."

  Petros shook his head. "My fields take too much time—"

  "Nonsense. All you're doing between now and harvest is a bit of weeding. If you didn't have to spend so much time gathering food, you'd have plenty of spare time on your hands."

  The boy considered it. "Maybe. That your best offer?"

  "What else do you want?"

  "Next planting, I want the use of a horse and plow."

  Was that an honest counteroffer, or was the boy pushing, testing him?

  Karl shook his head. "Just the horse. I've got plenty of horses. You'll have to rent a plow yourself."

  "Deal." The boy stuck out his hand. "Shake on it."

  "One more thing."

  "Well?" Petros eyed him suspiciously.

  "You smell like an outhouse." Karl jerked his thumb toward the lake. "Take a bath. Now. You can pick up a cake of soap at the schoolhouse. Tell Aeia I said so."

  "Done. But I'll be back in time to vote
. Nobody taking my vote from me."

  The boy walked off toward the lake, trying his best to hold back a smile.

  Karl didn't bother trying; he just turned his head away. Go ahead, Petros, think of me as a sucker.

  Standing on the speaking platform, Ahira pounded his fist against the metal gong. "Your attention please," he called out, his voice even louder than the gong. "The twenty-third Home town meeting is hereby called to order. Get the food off the fire and plug the kegs," he called out to the cooks. "There is a decision to be made."

  * * *

  " . . . and the offer is a good one," Chton said, for the eighteenth time. Karl was sure it was eighteen. As he lay back on the grass, propped up on his elbow next to Andy-Andy, he hadn't had anything better to do than count.

  Oh. Before I forget. Ahira says that there's a mountain lion around Petros' farm—

  *Such as it is.*

  Right. It would be kind of convenient if that lion got itself eaten.

  *Consider it munched.*

  " . . . what are we here? Just a few thousand, barely eking out a living from the soil and what we have to trade our blood and dying for."

  That did it. Enough of that crap. Point of fact, please.

  *Who? Moi?*

  Chak, please. And cut out the Miss Piggy imitation; you don't have the right intonation down.

  *Then you don't remember it clearly; I stole it from Andy-Andy's head, and she's got a better aural memory than you.*

  "Point of fact," Chak said, leaping to his feet.

  Chton tried to go on, but Ahira interrupted him. "Point of fact has been called. Your claim?"

  "I don't remember Chton shedding any blood. I don't know him all that well, but I thought he was just a farmer."

  Correct that, and quick.

  Chak's eyes momentarily glazed over. "Pardon me, I didn't mean to say something bad about farmers. What I was objecting to was Chton's taking credit for the blood that the warriors and the Engineers shed—not him."

  Ahira nodded judiciously. "You may continue, Chton, but omit taking credit for prices you haven't paid."

  For a moment, Karl thought that Chton was going to burst a blood vessel. "Haven't paid? How about Werthan, and his woman and child? Were they not farmers? Is a farmer's blood any less red than a warrior's? Would they not be alive today instead of lying in cold graves if we were under the protection of Lord Khoral?"

  Karl kept his face blank, but he couldn't help how his fists clenched. A child, body sprawled on a rough wood floor, her lifeblood a pool that would stain forever . . .

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  *You'd better answer that, Karl. If that wasn't addressed to you, I don't know what is.*

  No. There wasn't an answer; there wasn't an excuse.

  Ihryk rose to his feet. "I'll answer him, Mr. Mayor."

  "You?" Chton sneered. "One of Karl Cullinane's hirelings?"

  "I don't remember that sneer in your voice when Karl pulled you and me out of the slave wagon, Chton. I don't even remember you at Werthan's houseraising." Ihryk raised his fist. "But I'll tell you this—Werthan and Anna would have spent their lives with collars around their necks if it weren't for the likes of Karl Cullinane. And so would you and I."

  "Yes," Chton shot back, "the noble Karl Cullinane, the great man. Who just happens to be the richest man in the valley. If we join with Therranj, we'll all be as rich as he is, have as many servants as he does. Is that what bothers you, Karl Cullinane? Is that why you oppose Lord Khoral's offer?"

  *Karl, I think it's about time. If he calls for the vote now—*

  I know. Karl rose to his feet. "Point of personal privilege, Mr. Mayor."

  Ahria nodded. "You may address the point."

  Karl walked to the platform, forcing himself to move slowly, knowing that a hurried step might make it look as though Chton's taunts had scored.

  He stepped up onto the rough wood and turned to face the crowd.

  "About damn time, Karl," Ahira whispered. "This better be good."

  "It will be." He raised his voice. "Chton has made a point, and a good one. I . . . guess I should be ashamed. Yes, of course, the reason that I don't want Home to become part of Therranj is that I'm afraid for my status. It's only logical, isn't it? If everyone is better off, then it only follows that I would be worse off. . . ."

  He wrinkled his brow. "Wait. That doesn't make sense. Wouldn't I be better off, as well?" He nodded. "I know what Chton means, though." He picked a familiar face out of the crowd. "Harwen, I was just talking about it to you the other day, remember? I was complaining about your being out riding. I figured I'd be more comfortable riding both Carrot and your horse," he said, taking an absurdly wide stance.

  A quiet chuckle ran through the crowd.

  "And Ternius, you noticed me over by the cooking fire? I was glaring at everyone who was eating. After all, I can eat more than will fill my belly, can't I?" He glanced at the remaining roasts near the fire. "Well, I'll try, but I don't think I'd enjoy it.

  "You know something, Chton? I just can't do it. I just can't ride more than one horse at a time, or sleep in more than one bed at once, or eat more than my belly will hold. Or lie with more than one woman at a time—"

  Now.

  "You had damn well better not, Karl Cullinane." Andy-Andy leaped to her feet. "Point of information, Mr. Mayor."

  "Recognized. What information do you want?"

  "None. It's information I'd better give. You cheat on me, Karl Cullinane, and you'll be missing something I have reason to know you're fond of." She produced a knife from the folds of her robes and considered the edge.

  The quiet chuckle became a full-throated laugh.

  *Now that you've got them laughing, what are you going to do?*

  That was just the warm-up. Watch me.

  Karl raised his hands in mock surrender. "You see my point, Chton."

  "Listen—"

  "You've had your say; I'll have mine now." He hitched at the leather pouch at his waist. "Khoral doesn't want much from us, and that's a fact. All he wants is our fealty, and he'll give us much in return." Karl untied the pouch from his belt and held it in both hands. "Very much. He'll make me a baron, and give me the whole valley as my barony. Maybe, if I turn it down—and make no mistake, I would turn it down—he'll give it to Chton.

  "He'll send us serfs. All of you who have farms will have people around who will have to work your fields for you, or starve. Doesn't that sound good? Doesn't that sound familiar? Khoral will divide up the land for us, and then we can make them farm it. We won't even have to clap collars around their necks—they'll either work for us or starve.

  "And what does he want for this? Stand up, Lady Dhara, and tell us what he wants for this."

  She stood, but Karl didn't give her a chance to answer. "All he wants is our fealty; each and every one of us. That's all. He will give us gold, he says, and promises that our taxes will be low. All he wants is our fealty. All he wants is for us to say that he, Lord Khoral, is better able to decide how we should live than we are. You like that idea, Tivar?" He beckoned to a farmer who he knew was undecided. "You like the idea of turning your destiny over to that elf?"

  "N-no."

  "Wait!" Chton spun on Karl. "What's the difference between having Khoral rule and letting you and Ahira run the valley as though it were your fief? Tell me that."

  Karl walked to the ballot box and slammed his hand down on it. "This is the difference, fool. The difference is choice. Khoral wants you to trade this in—you know what he'll give you instead of this?"

  "Yes, gold—"

  *Now.*

  Don't teach your grandfather— "Gold. That's what it comes down to, isn't it, Chton? You and the rest of your Joiners want gold, and Khoral offers gold." Karl dug his hand into his pouch. "I have some of that gold right here." He pulled his hand out.

  The buttery golden collar shone in the bright daylight. "Is this what you want clamped around your neck?"

  "No
," several voices cried out, most of them Engineers.

  "I can't hear you. Do you want this?"

  "No!" The voices were stronger, although the warrior and Engineer factions were still the most vocal.

  "Now," Karl said, deliberately lowering his voice, forcing them all to listen carefully, "you have a choice. You can vote your confidence in the Mayor, or you can throw him out. Even if Ahira stays in as Mayor, you can still change your minds later. But this?" He raised the golden collar over his head. "Once you clamp this around your throat, do you think you can decide to take it off later? What if it doesn't fit you, Chton?" He tossed the collar to the platform. "What if it chokes you?"

  "Wait, that's not fair—"

  "Fair? I'll show you fair. Lady Dhara—catch this." He kicked the collar at Dhara; she caught it automatically, then dropped it as though it were on fire. "You can take that back to Lord Khoral and tell him that Home might make a good ally for Therranj, but if he tries to swallow us, he'll choke."

  He strode to the ballot box and stopped in front of the two barrels next to it. "You all can vote in privacy, if you wish," he said, selecting a single stone from the barrel of white ones, "but here's how I vote; I don't mind any of you seeing." He held it up for all to see. "I vote my confidence in Ahira—and for independence." He slammed the stone down into the ballot box, then walked off the platform.

  *Daven, Andy-Andy, Tennetty, and half a dozen others want to know if they're supposed to join you.*

  No, not yet. Let someone else go first.

  Petros vaulted to the platform. "I vote with Karl Cullinane," he said, taking up a white stone. Somewhere or other, the boy had managed to procure a knife; now he brandished it. "Does anybody value his life little enough to try stopping me?" He dropped the white stone in the ballot box, then leaped from the platform, standing beside Karl.

  Before Chton had his mouth half open, Ranella, the apprentice Engineer, had jumped to her feet. "The Engineers stand with Ahira," she said. "All of us."

  "I do, too," Ternius said. "And I don't see any need to wait."

  "And I—"

  "I will—"

  The trickle became a torrent, and then a flood.

  * * *

  "Transcending the political, eh, Karl?" Ahira smiled up at him as they walked down the road in the starlight. "Sounded to me like you were being very political, in your own way. Including lying."