After He Left (6)
From a certain day onward, the kingdom went quiet—as if the clamor that had dragged on for days upon days had been a lie, thinning away as emptily as mist before dawn.
"…So the protesters have disbanded for good?"
"Their purpose is gone. Disbanding was the natural next step."
"Hm. Feels awfully hollow."
"Hollow? Gave me the chills, more like."
The talk had started in a pub set reasonably near the Royal Castle, and the subject was the fire that had broken out there. A good stretch of time had passed since the blaze, and still the city would speak of nothing else. In a way, that was only natural.
"What becomes of this country now…?"
The king—no. More precisely, it was the kingdom called Pendragon itself that was shaking, and no one could go on treating the matter as a small affair. The kingdom had never been a sturdy shield standing over them. At best it had been a roof, something to break the worst of a downpour. Now that roof was worse than holed. It stood a single step from collapse.
Anxiety was only reasonable, and for those without power it swelled into something sharper still. Restlessness, with nowhere to put it. There was nothing to be done about that.
"…And the Traitor King's condition? What are they saying?"
"Condition? What condition? For a wretch who was never much of a king…"
"Even so, he was a king, wasn't he? The least courtesy is still owed."
"…Tsk. They say he's neither living nor dead. Word is he's still breathing as something like a lump of meat. Well. A fitting punishment, for him. Worse than a gnoll—no, worse than a goblin's piss-bladder. How does a man, once he's a man, lay hands on his own blood?"
"You said it."
Traitor King.
A new name for Edmund, and a slur besides. It was a name fit to drag a king's honor and authority all the way down into the sewers, and yet to be called a king at all was already more grace than he deserved.
Edmund's betrayal was famous enough by now that even a child of three knew of it. Then the fire had dragged an older matter into the light—an affair from twenty years ago.
Word that King Edmund had been involved spread in every direction, and after that no one remained who would stand behind him. There was, of course, the fear that supporting the king might draw Galahad's wrath. But Pendragon was the Kingdom of Knights. Noble and lowborn alike lived with that name as their pride, and contempt for a man who had not merely abandoned chivalry, but betrayed it, was only to be expected.
A fortnight ago there had still been people cursing the knight for beating the king and putting the kingdom in peril. Now those same voices were the ones taking the thrashing.
…Contempt, however, was only contempt. In the end the royal house of Pendragon had received something very like a sentence of death, and under Galahad's relentless punishment it was being ground away piece by piece. The court, in truth, was a name and nothing more. With no center left to hold it, unease among the people was inevitable.
And so—
"…I'm thinking of closing the pub."
"What?"
"I'm going to Tristan's castle. I know someone over that way."
"I… I see."
"And you? What will you do?"
"Me, I… haah. I'm looking at Galahad. Or Mordred."
"Galahad?"
"He's in a fury now, and that's why he seems as he does. But His Grace is a benevolent lord. To his own people, there is no end to his generosity."
"That… yes. That's true."
Little by little, the people were making ready to leave the Royal Capital. As birds and ants know by instinct when a storm is coming, so they too were seeking a new roof, slipping away from the calamity that went by the name of war. A cruel fact, perhaps. But for those without strength, it mattered—that there be a fence to keep them, and a roof stout enough to turn even a hard rain.
Now that the trust between the people and the kingdom had broken, Pendragon was a safe roof no longer.
……And yet, even with that gravity hanging over everything—
"—Councilor Maxwell. What do you say we put this situation to use?"
A roof might be coming down, but human greed had no end.
"What are you saying, Zeke?"
The two noble councilors were holding a private conversation in the townhouse they kept in the Royal Capital.
"A simple thing, Councilor. You know it as well as I do. The fate of the Pendragon royal house is finished."
"Now, now. Watch your tongue."
"There's no one here to hear us, is there?"
"Tsk, tsk. A man in politics, and not a scrap of caution. There are ears everywhere."
"The lecture can wait. Hear me out first."
"…Go on, then."
"Haha. Hear it, and I think even you will be tempted, Councilor. What I'm saying is this. Why don't we found a new party?"
"Found a party?"
"Yes. A party. Not merely sitting on the Noble Council—founding an entirely new one."
"In times like these?"
"Because the times are like these, it's possible."
His voice dropped lower.
"Councilor, the Pendragon royal house is finished either way. That fool Edmund brought it on himself."
"…Keep talking."
"Let me take the great trading companies as an example. Those people split their interests among the branch chiefs and the company heads. The head is not absolute. Investors of every kind hold a share, which means that being head does not let a man handle the company as he pleases."
"True enough."
"The kingdom was the same. The royal house of Pendragon and the great houses held it between them and turned it as they liked. But now one corner of that arrangement—the royal house—has lost its real power. Someone has to take the empty seat, doesn't he? What I'm saying is this: let us take the interests of the South in hand while they are coming apart in midair."
"And you believe such a thing is possible?"
"It is. Because it is now."
Precisely because this was a crisis—because the people were soaking through with anxiety and unease—they would be easy to stir.
"The name can be something suitable. The Freedom Party will do. For a slogan, the equality of all, peace, and the guarantee of rights. That sort of thing."
"Not bad. Suitable for charming supporters. …But do you actually mean to keep every one of those slogans?"
"……."
"Haha. A mischievous question. Forgive me."
"Ahaha! Councilor, there really is no stopping you!"
Maxwell laughed as if embarrassed by a question he himself had asked, and Zeke laughed with him. Yes. A slogan was only a slogan—a means of gathering the people, of gathering supporters. Put the newspapers and the agitators to work, and supporters would swarm like bees.
Especially now.
The more unstable the realm, the better they gather.
The longer one practiced politics, the clearer it became. Even a lie would take, so long as the stirring was done well.
"But will it truly go so smoothly?"
"It will be difficult, I'll grant you. Seizing the interests themselves shouldn't be hard. The trouble is that those lofty great nobles will hardly leave us be."
"Then?"
"We strike short, and we slip away."
"Oh?"
"Our aim was never anything so grand as the kingdom's peace. We hold the interests for a very brief while. That is all."
The kingdom's peace and quiet were none of their concern. Honestly, they would rather it grow more chaotic still. If it did—
There would be that much more to scoop up.
To the powerless, war was a crisis. To those with power, it was the same word as paradise.
"If it starts to look dangerous, we take a little in donations from the supporters beforehand, and we work with the great companies to gather a large store of portable wealth. The household, we move out in advance to some reasonably safe country estate."
"By putting the valuables in their hands?"
"Yes. Civil war is already certain. It would be strange if one failed to break out in a situation like this. So what we must wait for is the world after the war. Once it is over, raising a house will take a generous war chest, and founding this party will be a great help in filling it."
"Heh. Already looking at the future, are you?"
"It may be too much for my own generation. But by my grandson's time, or my great-grandson's, we ought to hear ourselves called a great house, shouldn't we? …Your house as well, Councilor."
"That—! The mere thought of it stirs the blood!"
One could call it a fraud, but the people had no way of knowing. And even if, against every expectation, the party took root and actually ran, that too would be profit of its own kind. A reputation would come of it. Conversely, even if it collapsed, there was no problem so long as the war chest had been filled. They would simply vanish.
Gathering supporters was essential as well. They would be the meat shields that kept their betters safe.
"Then I shall join you."
"I'll need help from a few others besides yourself. Eat a feast alone, and it tends to make a man sick."
"There should be a fair number ready to be tempted."
"Haha. Good, good!"
"A glad day. Thanks to that insight of yours, my eyes have been opened wide."
"You flatter me."
The two of them gilded each other's faces and filled their glasses with wine. Rich in fragrance, brilliant in color, it seemed almost to be lighting the future they had sketched for themselves.
Clink!
They laughed and talked on, striking glass to glass, drawing up a grand blueprint under the name of ambition—!
"—Thirty-two in all. That is the number of noble councilors dead today alone."
"……."
"……."
"Hm. Those who died today were rather famous men. Councilor Maxwell, and Councilor Zeke. Both of them quite capable sorts. The trouble is that they used that capability not to better the kingdom, but to sicken it. A flaw in the men themselves."
…Simon's low remark moved through them like a ripple, and their eyes trembled. That someone had died was a fact, yes. But more than the fact—
"…Do you perhaps possess a Mystery of foresight?"
Everything had come to pass as if it were prophecy, and they could only stare, struck dumb.
At that, Simon gave a light shrug.
"You praise me far too highly. Observation, inference, and imagination. Give a man those three, and anyone can see this much. A paltry little trick, nothing more."
"……."
…That didn't seem right.