CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Oh, cynicism is in style nowadays. People have no character anymore,” Mantho complained. “They’ve reduced themselves to personalities, and they believe that personality is all there is. They lack integrity.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then moved a soldier three spaces to the left on the usto board. “Your turn.”

Adred smiled at him and, as he rolled the dice, commented, “But that’s true of everyone; always has been. You can’t say that people today have a monopoly on those defects.” His dice settled, showing Adred a three, a two, and a six. He grinned and reached for his king. “Prepare to defend yourself!”

“But it’s more true today than ever before,” Mantho countered. “Look at the people. They’re dissatisfied and don’t know why, or if they do know why, they blame someone else. They’ve gotten too used to having someone take care of them. Can’t take care of themselves. Who’s to blame for that? Good move.”

Adred removed one of Mantho’s black guards and set his own red king three spaces from his friend’s. “Better roll a three or you’re done for.”

Mantho dropped the dice: two threes and a five. Adred groaned. His host leisurely walked his king diagonally across the square and, with his advantage of five, took Adred’s king. “Too many people,” he continued, smiling. “Usto.”

Adred shook his head. “If I were twenty years older,” he remarked, “I’d be like you. Smug and self-confident.”

“I’ve worked hard for what I have.”

“Of course you have. You weren’t born to the silver. But you have what you have because of everyone else; without them, you couldn’t have prospered, and you know it.”

“Don’t pull out Radulis on me!” Mantho laughed, and tipped his wine cup toward Adred in a salute. “Your argument’s faulty, but you played a good game.”

Adred said, “The argument is sound. We’ve gotten lopsided. When you profited from your businesses, you shared the results of your hard work. You looked after the families you employed.”

“I did.”

“You saw them as an asset, not an expense. Can you honestly say that it’s that way now?”

“No. And I know that. But if I were in business now, I couldn’t afford to look after my help the way I used to.”

“And why is that? Because the cost of doing business has gotten too expensive? It’s always been too expensive. I haven’t met a business person yet who didn’t know how to make money no matter how expensive things gets!”

Mantho laughed. “You’re right. If he knows his business.”

“They want the poor people to keep the roads clean so that they can move their goods efficiently, but they don’t want to pay those people. And they don’t want the government to tax their businesses to help keep the roads clean, so the government takes the money from the peasants and the shopkeepers. Using my friends in government to steal from the poor to make myself richer—I wish I were that smart a businessman.”

“They’re not smart. They’re corrupt.”

“You admit it?”

“There’s a difference between being in business and bribing the government! Yes, I admit it. I did as much as I could with people I felt I could trust, and I did my best to be honest and fair, believe it or not.”

“I do believe it. But if anyone else was ever honest or fair, they aren’t now. Business and the bankers run the government. We’re all under their boot. And don’t give me that look. You know what I mean.”

“It’s not as bad as that.”

“No—it’s worse than that. Look out any window. People have no jobs, and they’re hungry. And they’re angry, Mantho. But the wealthy stay indoors, and their nostrils are so clogged with the smell of money, they can’t smell the stink from the streets.”

“The stink from the streets is pretty strong here in Sulos,” Mantho admitted. “We’ve had these riots and protests going on for the past month. Remember the day you left for the capital?”

“I’d assumed that was just a small gathering.”

Mantho shook his head. “Went on for three days. Arrested hundreds of people.”

“For jobs,” Adred said, anger in his voice. “For food, for jobs.…”

“Yes.” Mantho sighed. “I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t cause it. I can say that truthfully.”

At fifty-two years of age, Mantho had had a brilliant career in finance and business, the result of his combining an interest in money with his love of athletics and the military. His greatest financial coup—the assumption of control of a large shipping and textile exporting firm—had been inspired by the Battle of Kadaeosh, an early glory of the Athadian civil wars. The successful risk had made him an extremely wealthy man at the young age of twenty-four.

“If we don’t see full-scale riots soon,” Adred said grimly, “we’ll see social war. Or we’ll start a war somewhere. But that could only help the economy, couldn’t it?”

“I’d rather be in a war. At least there you have something solid to fight for, something to live for. It gives you ideals. Gods! Why can’t we believe in ourselves anymore?”

Adred stood, stretched, and fingered some of the discarded usto pieces. “Another game?”

“In a little while, perhaps,” Mantho replied. “I want to go out and check up on some—” He stopped abruptly, looking at the door.

Adred turned at his stare. It was Orain, standing at the steps of the portico. Her expression was grave; she was visibly shaken.

Adred took a step toward her. “Orain? What is it?” Now he noticed the slip of paper in one of her hands.

“From Abgarthis,” she said, nearly in a whis­per. Stepping down into the tiled portico, she walked to Adred and handed the letter to him. As she did, she looked at Count Mantho. “A letter from Abgarthis,” she said, “at court. A courier just—”

“By the gods,” Adred said. “Queen Yta’s been murdered.”

Mantho stood in surprise.

“By soldiers,” Adred said, looking his friend in the eyes. “By imperial soldiers—under orders from Cyrodian!”

“But if— Cyrodian?” Mantho fell quiet as the truth came to him. “Fighting Elad?” he asked, knowing the answer already. “From exile? For the throne?”

“Why not?” Adred growled, crumpling the letter and furi­ously hurling it to the floor. “Anyone who kills now has a chance at ruling the country!”

“Calm down, calm down, we must—”

“Oh, why didn’t Elad just ax the bastard and damn the army to hell!” Adred said hotly. “We can’t even feed the hungry people in our country, and these fools are killing every member of their family!”

Orain, taking the chair Adred had vacated, leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared dully at the gray-clothed Mantho, looking through him. Adred, glancing at her, felt his fury dissolve as he remembered Dursoris on the night of his death—killing every member in their family—mutilated, and Orain.…

“I’m sorry.” He stepped closer to her. “I’m very sorry,” he apologized in a low tone.

Mantho looked on, frowning, but Orain shook her head and drew in a deep, steady breath. “You’re right,” she whispered. “No, you are. Cyrodian should have been executed.” Quietly, staring now at the floor: “But only after they’d tortured him and…done things to him that he deserved—cruel things.”

Mantho, who had found the Princess Orain charming and generous, stared at her now, utterly speechless.

* * * *

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Orain apologized later. “I didn’t mean it, I shouldn’t have said it. No one should wish that upon anyone.”

“That’s true,” Mantho agreed. “We shouldn’t. But we’re only people, after all. It’s trying to do our best that makes us good.”

Orain looked at him. All was very quiet. There was but one lamp burning, and it hissed slightly with the last of its oil. Adred had gone out and taken Galvus with him—a talk between men, he’d called it. There were times when the two of them, so dissimilar in age and temperament, still seemed to communicate in a way that was foreign to everyone else.

“Would you like to spend the night out here?” Mantho asked. They were on the enclosed balcony of a room on the second floor. “It’s cooler. The breeze is cool, but it might refresh you.”

“I’d like that, yes. Thank you.”

“No trouble. I’ll send a servant in with some things.” He stood, bowed politely, and went out, softly closing the door.

Orain lay back on the couch and closed her eyes. Time moved so quickly. There was no chance to pause, relax, no opportunity to ponder as she had when a young woman, no time to read or to discuss wonderful things with thoughtful people, no time left to laugh.…

Gods, was there no laughter anymore? Or had that, too, died with Dursoris?

Soft footsteps. She opened her eyes and looked up. A manservant, middle-aged, was setting out a number of blankets and pillows on a chair. He turned to Orain as she sat forward.

“My name is Euis,” he announced in a low voice. “I’ll be awake all night; I stay on this floor. If there’s anything you need, Princess Orain, please ring the bell.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Euis. I will do that.”

He bowed and took a step toward the door—and paused.

Orain watched him, and then she heard it, too. Distant—but nonetheless loud, despite the distance.

“What—” she murmured.

But she knew, even as Euis explained it to her.

“The riots,” he answered quickly. “Again…tonight…and close by. They fight in the streets—”

“It doesn’t go on every night, does it?” Orain asked.

“Almost every night. They’re hungry every night. Some are killed—” his voice was terribly quiet, now, almost silent “—and then they aren’t hungry any longer.” He looked down at her.

Orain didn’t know what to say to him. What could she say? “Euis…I’m sorry.”

He smiled at her and nodded, but in the dimness, Orain could not know whether he was sincere. “I’m sorry, too,” the servant admitted, “but not for them. For the soldiers, for the rich, for the aristocrats.…”

Orain was taken by a deep feeling of apprehension.

“Forgive me, lady.” He bowed again. “I meant nothing by it. But it continues, every night. No one seems to have any answers, and there is no peace.” He shuffled out, and Orain listened to him cross the room and leave.

She sat where she was for a very long time, thinking about what he had said.