Compromise
It was dawn, the morning after the coup had succeeded. Marcella was still in the midst of taking power over the Great Forest, and I was not idle either.
"Allan Madoff. ...No. Commissioner Allan. Forgive me, but I mean to report to His Majesty everything I witnessed here."
The man who said it had the bold, cleanly cut features of a born soldier. It was Viscount Grant, one of the Empire's Sword Masters, and for a victor his face was strangely grave.
The operation had succeeded, so a report to the Emperor was only proper. By now His Majesty was likely too restless to sleep. Even so, I knew that "everything I witnessed," coming from Viscount Grant, was no simple account of the fighting.
He means to set out every harm of heroin, one by one. That is why he is asking my leave.
Depending on how it went, I might be made to "explain" heroin. I was not bitter. I had seen it coming.
"Yes, Vice-Commander. Please report it in detail. If there is anything you wish to know about heroin, you are welcome to ask me whatever you like."
"What...?"
"I know what worries you. If the greatest mage in the Great Forest flails helplessly and dies on a blade, and we let it pass as though it were nothing, that would be the strange thing. His Majesty ought to know of it as well."
Viscount Grant let out a low, doubtful sound. I meant every word.
The imperial troops who had overturned Medellin with me were few, but every one of them was elite. Those dispatched from the Imperial Escort Knights were, as a matter of course, men at the very peak of knighthood, and the officers drawn from the army were no less select. They had seen not heroin's pleasure, but only its ravages. Let them talk, and a proper alarm would take shape on its own. If the Emperor had any sense, he would take measures.
We had won with ease thanks to heroin, and now that same heroin had to be feared. I, its maker, was the very man who had handed the Empire a tremendous victory. His Majesty would find the position awkward.
"Commissioner Allan. You may not receive the reward you are due."
"That is all right. I thought it might come to this... no. Forget I said that. Report to His Majesty, honestly, everything you have seen and heard here. Even if it leaves me at a disadvantage, I will never resent you for it."
I let my eyes sink as I spoke, as if the strength had gone out of them. Viscount Grant nodded, looking a good deal easier.
"You have my thanks."
Before long, everything that had passed in the night would be laid before the Emperor. I had foreseen it, and I had already settled how I would carry myself. The foundation of the thing was to play the loyal subject who quietly swallowed the unjust slighting of his merit.
Even so, I ought to demand material compensation. That, if anything, will set the Emperor at ease.
I was turning over the question of my future conduct when an elf came looking for me.
"Human? The Consul... summons you."
The Consul. A hat of office that had not existed in Medellin a few hours ago, newly created by the unanimous vote of the Council of Elders—in name, a leader who would wield supreme authority with no term set upon the post.
That Consul was, of course, Marcella. The very one who had assassinated the Grand Elder: a warrior who, at the young age of one hundred and ninety, had climbed to the summit of the Great Forest.
I made my way to Marcella's new office, which until recently had belonged to the Grand Elder, expecting that we would speak of the armistice.
"Marcella."
"Come in."
She had become the one who held power, yet her dress was shabbier than an ordinary elf's. Green hair worn long and loose, a tunic without sleeves and open at the sides so the ribs showed—the hard body of a swordswoman, trained over a long age, was left entirely on display.
A careless way of dressing I could have let pass. The air in the office was another matter.
"Come in. Allan Madoff. What are you staring at?"
"Nothing."
Two elves were gasping at her side. One stood braced against the wall, hauling in deep breaths; the other lay face-down on the floor, pouring sweat. Both were wrapped in blankets. Anyone could see they were deep in withdrawal. The question was why they were gasping beside Marcella. Surely she had not cut them off from heroin out of some private grudge.
"Marcella. Mind if I ask what this is?"
"We'll have a great deal to settle as it is."
"I'd like an answer. I can't make sense of it."
At that, Marcella looked at the elves for a long moment.
"They're my blood. Very close blood."
I said nothing.
"I warned them about heroin all this time, and they ignored me. Then they heard I had raised a coup, and they came. When I told them I meant to have heroin users live in the Hohen District, they said, late, that they would stop taking it. ...And so they look like this."
Close, she said—close enough to be real kin. Cousins, perhaps, or full sisters. I held my tongue and studied her. Worry lay heavy on her face as she looked at her blood with something like pity. Now that I thought of it, there had been a sort of drape over that sleeveless tunic. Where had it—
Ah. There.
The drape lay on the floor, torn to shreds. She must have grappled with the elves over there. Once withdrawal set in, a person stopped seeing what was in front of them. There was nothing strange in someone declaring they would quit and then, moments later, raving about why they were not being allowed a smoke.
"...Allan. By any chance."
"Say it."
"Marcella?"
I pressed her, but she only stared straight at me. A faint smile rose, and she shook her head. That alone was enough. I could guess what she had meant to say, and then folded away.
"Marcella. Were you about to ask whether they could quit heroin?"
"Not that. Whether you could help."
"Ah."
"Then I thought about it. There's no reason you would help me. Or you would help, and demand concessions for it. ...Pretend you heard nothing."
She had decided, flatly, that I would not help. Considering what I had done to Medellin, expecting goodwill would have been the stranger thing. Had it played out as in the original, Marcella would have obstructed the Saintess's mediation to the last and died at Leon's hands, but that was hardly something to raise.
Contrary to what she believed, I was willing to help her.
Being conciliatory, at this point, is the right play.
Medellin was already in her grip. We did not need to trust each other, but the hostility had to be worn down to some degree—at least far enough that she would not feel like killing me.
Just then her mutter reached my ear.
She had certainly not meant it for me. Knowing that, I still felt something strange well up. It was not admiration for the devotion with which she wanted her family free of heroin. A question I had long kept buried had surfaced, for once. A question about my younger sister.
Hard to abandon one's family? Was that what drove Yerin, too?
I had fought my father for years and at last put him in a cell. I had cut off my mother, who stood in my way to protect him. The one I kept in contact with, to the very end, was my sister. When a Southeast Asian merchantman marked her and trouble followed, I went and settled it myself. In that line of work, trouble did not finish at a cell door, so I helped her. It was thanks to that stretch of my life that I learned the drug trade more deeply than before.
Yerin must have been grateful. When I lost my job, she even gave me money to get by. I thought we were getting along well enough, and then she stabbed me in the back. That betrayal was no small part of why I had wanted to become a transmigrator.
At the time I could not see why she had done it, and honestly I never tried very hard to. Adapting to a new life kept me busy enough. Thanks to Marcella, though, I could dimly guess.
Was she afraid I would send her away, too?
Watching the day I had my father locked up after that mud-fight, she must have had a great deal on her mind. For my part, the man had beaten me with a monkey wrench; I did it because I had to get free, one way or another. Even so, the sight of me laying out the plan and operating on my own parents could hardly have seemed ordinary. As Marcella said, flesh and blood is not easily cast off, even flesh and blood that has brought you nothing but trouble. She may have felt the danger in it—that if she fell out with me even a little, she too would be made to see something filthy. Turning it over now was pointless.
Still. Better to know than to live without knowing.
I had been sunk in the thought for some time when Marcella looked at me with plain distaste.
"Allan Madoff? What are you doing? It's unpleasant."
"Sorry."
"We need our accounts aligned before we negotiate with your imperial house. Sit."
Her composure was already back. We did need to align them. Before that, though, I had something to say.
"I'll help."
"What?"
"With the quitting. You said those elves are close blood, didn't you? Someone with no will to stop can't be saved. Someone determined to quit on their own has a faint chance. If you want it, I'll help."
From the look on her face, she was trying to fathom what this bastard could possibly be thinking. So I decided to give her a reason she could accept.
"Even you, Marcella, will not find elven society easy to take hold of. You'll need the support of your clan secured, at the least, or ruling will not go smoothly. And only with your rule on firm ground will negotiations with the Empire go smoothly as well."
"That... is the reason."
"Yes. That's why."
I promised to oversee the withdrawal of her two kin. It would have to be cold turkey, but if I tended their temperature and their loss of fluid myself, the aftermath would at least be lighter. That much, I could do.
"Fine."
Only then did Marcella nod, and accept the help. The eyes she turned on me were still full of doubt. She was welcome to wonder why I was doing it. I added nothing. Explain at any length, and she would not believe me anyway.
It was enough to leave her with the sense that she would do better to compromise with me.