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Bertrand gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
“This is what it means, my friends, to let this dictator loose among us. The very air we struggle to breath will be tainted with his sinister magic, the water befouled with his witchcraft, While he and his cohorts laugh at the suffering of honest, hard working people, Ander and Haken alike, they grow rich at our expense. He will use our pure air and clean water to grow his foul things of magic to press a war no one wants!”
People were shouting in anger, shaking their fists, to hear their Sovereign reveal these ugly truths. There was horror, fear, and revulsion, but mostly there was anger. For some, to their disillusionment with Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor was added the indignation of having been taken for fools, while for others their suspicions about such heartless powerful people were merely confirmed.
Bertrand held up a hand. “The Imperial Order has offered to purchase our goods at prices far above those we now receive.” They applauded and whistled.
“Lord Rahl would steal it from you! That is your choice, good people, to listen to the lies of this vile magician from the distant D’Hara who would trick you into giving away your rights, who would use our land to propagate his things of vile magic to press on with a needless war, who would let your children starve or die from the harmful effects of his mad spells, or to sell what you grow and produce to the Imperial Order and enrich your families as never before.”
Now the crowd was truly worked up. People, with fresh goodwill toward their new Sovereign, were for the first time hearing solid reasons to reject Lord Rahl. More than that, solid reason to fear him. But best of all, solid reasons to hate him.
Dalton was crossing some items from the list in his hand when he saw they weren’t as effective, and circling others that received the biggest reactions. As he and Bertrand knew it would, the word “children” provoked the biggest reaction, inciting a near riot at the terrible things about to happen to them. The mere mention of the word “children” caused reason to evaporate from people’s heads.
War, too, had the effect they had expected. People were terrified to learn it was Lord Rahl pressing the war, and that there was no need for it. People would want peace at any cost. When they discovered the cost, they would pay. It would be too late for them to do otherwise.
“We must get past this, my people, put it in the past, and get on with the business of Anderith. We have much work to do. Now is not the time to give up all we have accomplished to become a slave state to this magician from afar, a man obsessed with wealth and power, a man who only wants to drag us all into his foolish war. There could be peace, if he would only give peace a chance—but he won’t.
“I know such a man would cast aside our traditions and religion, leaving you without a Sovereign, but I fear for you, not myself. I have so much yet to do. I have so much love to give to the people of Anderith. I have been blessed, and I have so much to give back to the community.
“I beg of you, I beg of you as proud people of Anderith all, to show your contempt for this sly demon from D’Hara, show him you see his wicked ways.
“The Creator Himself, through me, demands you stand up to Lord Rahl when you vote your conscience by putting an X through his evil! Ex through his tricks! Ex through his lies! Ex through his tyranny! Ex through him and the Mother Confessor, too!”
The square roared. The buildings around shook with it as it went on and on. Bertrand held his arms up in front of himself, crossing them to make a big X everyone could see as they cheered him.
Hildemara, at his side, applauded as she fixed him with her customary public adoring gaze.
When the crowd finally quieted as he raised a silencing hand, Bertrand held the hand out to his wife, introducing her to the people. They cheered for her almost as long as for him.
Hildemara, pleased beyond measure with her new role, spread her hands for quiet. She got it almost instantly.
“Good people of Anderith, I cannot tell you how proud I am to be the wife of this great man—”
She was drowned out by the roaring cheer. Her outstretched arms finally succeeded in again bringing silence.
“I cannot tell you how I’ve watched as my husband has worked his heart out for the people of Anderith. Caring not for recognition, unnoticed, he has labored tirelessly for the people, without regard even to his own rest or nourishment.
“When I would ask him to rest, he would say to me, ‘Hildemara, as long as there are hungry children, I cannot rest.’”
As the crowd again went wild, Dalton had to turn away to take a sip of wine. Teresa clutched his arm.
“Dalton,” she whispered, “the Creator has answered our prayers to deliver us Bertrand Chanboor to be Sovereign.”
He almost laughed, but saw the awe in her eyes as she looked at the man. Dalton sighed to himself. It was not the Creator who delivered them Bertrand, but Dalton himself.
“Tess, wipe your eyes. The best is yet to come.”
Hildemara went on. “And for the sake of those children, I ask that every one of you reject the hate and division Lord Rahl would peddle to our people!
“Reject the Mother Confessor, too, for what does she know of common people? She is a woman born into advantage, born into wealth. What does she know of hard work? Show her that her birthright of dominance is at an end! Show her we will not willingly submit to her hateful treatment of poor working people! Show her we reject her privileged life! Ex through the Mother Confessor and her pompous demands of people she doesn’t even know!
“I say the Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor have enough wealth! Don’t give them yours, too! They’ve no right to it!”
Dalton yawned and rubbed his eyes as the cheering turned to chanting of the name Chanboor. He couldn’t remember sleeping. He’d had to twist the arm of one of the Directors to make it unanimous. Such unanimity inferred divine intervention on behalf of the chosen Sovereign, and served to strengthen his mandate.
When at last Bertrand again stepped up and addressed the crowd, Dalton was only half listening until he heard his name mentioned.
“This is why, among other reason too numerous to mention, I have personally involved myself in the selection process. It is with special pride I introduce to you the new Minister of Culture, a man who will protect and serve as well as any who have gone before him”—Bertrand held out his hand—“Dalton Campbell.”
Beside him, Teresa fell to her knees, bowing her head to Bertrand.
“Oh, Sovereign, Your Greatness, thank you for recognizing my husband. Bless you for what you have done for him.”
Rather than feeling proud of the appointment, Dalton felt a bit let down. Teresa knew the work he put in to getting where he had gotten, but now she ascribed it all to the greatness of Bertrand Chanboor.
Such was the power of the Sovereign’s word. As he looked out over the crowd of cheering people, and thought about the words he would say to back Bertrand and Hildemara, he guessed it was just as well, for the people, too, would be just as swayed by the Sovereign’s stand on the coming vote.
But there was yet more to come. Dalton had yet to unleash the final element.
The smell, like a prisoner rushing to escape, hit him full-on as the door was dragged open. It was too dark to see. Dalton snapped his fingers, and the big Ander guards yanked the torches from the rusty brackets and brought them along.
“Are you sure he’s still alive?” Dalton asked. “Do you ever check?”
“He’s alive, Minister.”
Dalt
on was momentarily confused, and then staggered by the title. Whenever someone addressed him by the title it took a split second to realize they meant him. Just the sound of it, Minister of Culture, Dalton Campbell, left him reeling.
The guard held out the torch. “Over here, Minister Campbell.”
Dalton stepped over men so filthy they looked nearly invisible against the greasy-black floor. Fetid water ran through a depression in the center of the blackened brick. Where it came into the room it provided drinking water, such as it was. Where it went out it was a latrine. The walls, the floor, the men, were alive with vermin.
At the far side of the room, across the foul water, a small barred window, about head height and too small for a man to crawl through, opened onto an alley. If family or friends cared if the prisoners lived, they could come to the alley and feed them.
Because the men’s arms and feet were secured in wooden blocks to restrain them, they couldn’t fight one another for food. They could do little more than lie on the floor. They couldn’t walk because of the blocks; at best they could hop a short distance. If they could straighten enough, they could put their mouth up near the window and receive food. If no one fed them, they died.
All the prisoners were naked. The torchlight reflected off greasy-black bodies, and he saw that one of the prisoners was a skinny old woman without teeth. Dalton wasn’t even sure some of the men were alive. They showed no reaction to the men stepping over them.
“I’m surprised he’s alive,” Dalton said to the guard.
“He has those who believe in him, still. They come every day and feed him. He speaks to them, through the window, after they feed him. They sit and listen to him ramble on, as if what he had to say were important.”
Dalton had no idea the man still had his followers; it was a bonus. With ready followers, it would take little time to have the movement underway.
A guard dipped a torch to point. “There he is, Minister Campbell. That’s the fellow.”
The guard kicked the man laying on his side. The head turned their way. Not fast, not slow, but deliberate. Rather than the cowed look Dalton expected, one fiery eye glared up.
