Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

  Not Mussopo, not Kirdahi or Ontondra nor any of the others could even guess at it. Quietly and alone the two rulers worked on their peculiar project, nurturing it in secret, as though like a delicate flower it might wither in the glare of attention.

  The flower took root in their minds and grew. It was to be a major new decree. Many nights they spent ruminating on its every facet, laboriously composing their thoughts into sentences, only to cross them out and try another set of words. Save for the kernel of a visionary idea, there was nothing to guide them. But gradually, as they worked at it, the concepts and the language took shape.

  When it was finally proclaimed on the twenty-fourth of Okhudzhava, 1188, the decree was a lengthy, detailed one. But its language was simple, and the official copy was executed in the Emperor’s own plain penmanship.

  This decree, to be carried into every corner of the nation, established the twentieth of Elalbatar as the date for a great assembly to convene at Naddeghomra. The entire population was to be represented, with each province called upon to send a certain specified number of delegates. Estimates of population provided the basis for this apportionment, and the respective governors were directed to likewise use population as a guide for allocating the call for delegates among their localities. The largest province, Khrasanna, would send sixty-five delegates; the smallest, Bhudabur, would sent thirty. In all, the assembly would number exactly 350.

  It would sit for six months. During that time, the delegates would receive a stipend, paid out of the national treasury, to provide for their room and board and a reasonable compensation as well. An allowance would also be made for their traveling expenses to and from Naddeghomra.

  Also specified in the decree was the manner by which the delegates were to be chosen. With at least one month’s notice spread by broadside, each town would call a mass public meeting, similar to those at which they were electing their local councils. Attendance at these meetings was to be open to all, and there were no restrictions either on who might be chosen delegate. This was not to be an assembly of noblemen and notables, but an assembly of the common people of Urhemma.

  Nevertheless, its assigned task was a weighty one. Jehan’s decree set forth boldly the agenda for the assembly: to write a new code of laws to govern Prasid Urhemma.

  Bergharran law had ruled the conduct of her people for eight centuries, but the law of Bergharra was more a concept, a way of looking at relationships, than a specific set of regulations. The Bergharran code concerned itself primarily with the investiture of power to execute law, and only secondarily with the substance of the law to be executed. Absolute power resided in the throne; there were no legal rights in the face of the Emperor. Nearly as unbridled in their fiat were the local magistrates, mayors, and viceroys. And aside from these assignments of hierarchical authority, there was little Bergharran law, almost none of it formally codified.

  Of course, even that negligible law had been abrogated by the revolution. Justice in Urhemma had become an extremely unsettled and haphazard proposition, wholly up to the local officials. In this respect the people had, if anything, fewer concrete rights than under the Tnemghadi.

  This breach Jehan was proposing to fill with a completely new code of laws, promulgated not by the Throne as might have been expected, but instead thrashed out in open meetings of a representative popular assembly. It was something that had never been done before, something that boggled the minds of many who read this novel decree.

  But Jehan and Golana had applied a prodigious amount of thought to his plan before unveiling it, and in a few terse sentences, the Okhudzhava Decree explained its foundation:

  Government, wise people acknowledge, is most admirable and worthy when it best serves its citizens, enhancing their liberty and well-being. Thus, not as a master unto his slaves should a government rule its people, but instead the people should be master, and government the slave, doing their bidding. And if the good of the people is to be paramount, then the laws under which they live should be such laws as they desire, as being needful to their welfare. It should be the people who make the laws.

  Recognizing the impossibility of having the millions participate directly in lawmaking, Golana had hit upon the idea of an assembly of commonfolk to accomplish, as closely as possible, the same thing.

  In fact, the purpose of the assembly went even beyond that of bringing ordinary people into lawmaking. He and Golana perceived how the incompleteness of the Bergharran law was tailored to autocracy and tyranny. The law was what the magistrates willed it to be, and that was as good as no law at all. But Urhemma’s new code drawn up by the assembly was going to be very different. The rights of the people would be specified, committed to paper and published far and wide. No criminal would be punished, except as the law provided; no person would lose property except as the law prescribed.

  For the first time ever, the people would be making their own laws; and for the first time ever the law, and the rights of the people, would be clear, real, vital.

  12

  ON THE TWENTIETH of Elalbatar, the National Assembly of Prasid Urhemma convened at Naddeghomra.

  The meeting place was the broad white marble plaza of The Maal, where row upon row of wooden benches had been installed, in the fashion of an amphitheater. They were actually well-made chairs with armrests, backs, and cushions, to ensure the comfort of the delegates as much as possible under the hot southern sun.

  To this open-air meeting hall, the 350 had been arriving for weeks. Naddeghomra was abuzz with anticipation over this remarkable Assembly, and yet the delegates themselves seemed unremarkable. At least half of them were mere peasant farmers. Most of the others were laborers, petty merchants, and artisans such as carpenters, wheelwrights, candle-makers and smiths. Most of them were illiterate, but a few towns had purposefully sent lowly professional scribes with the thought that their skills would be useful. A few of the delegates were really ragged sorts—servants, peddlers, possibly even a cut-purse or two. Some were priests of Urhem, adventurers and rabble-rousers. Three pf them were women, and there was even one—a baker from Vdarheddin in Ohreem—who was half Tnemghadi.

  At the appointed hour on the twentieth of Elalbatar, all of these delegates were in their seats on the plaza. On all sides were Naddeghomrans by the thousand, and sitting on special benches to one side were the ministers of the government. They were not voting members of this Assembly.

  Then, heralded by a blast of trumpets, loud but brief, the Emperor Jehan Henghmani emerged from inside the palace. He walked alone, unaccompanied even by servants. Thus in solitary splendor he made his way the short distance to the platform at the well of the Assembly.

  And of course, the delegates were all on their feet, applauding furiously, and roaring their cheers together with the crowd of onlookers. Many waved bandannas in the air, and shouts of “Vahiy Jehan!”and “Gavashat Jehan!”—Long Live Jehan!—threw up an ear-splitting din.

  Jehan ignored all this commotion; it was old hat to him. He stood behind the lectern at the platform, and while he waited for the demonstration to subside, he looked carefully into the faces of these delegates who would shape the future of Urhemma.

  And, when quiet was restored, that was how he welcomed them. “You three hundred and fifty,” he said, “have been sent here by the people to build the destiny of Prasid Urhemma.”

  He read to them excerpts from the Okhudzhava Decree, and exhorted them to keep well in mind the principles there expressed. It would be those principles, he said, and not the hand of an autocrat, that would henceforward guide Urhemma. He would attend the Assembly’s deliberations with a keen interest, and might suggest subjects for their consideration; but never would he dictate to them, never would he bully them into any action. This would be an Assembly of free men and women, acting freely and for the public good, consistent with the creed of Urhem and with yarushkadharra.

  Accordingly, Jehan announ
ced that he would refuse even to chair the meetings of the Assembly. They must select their own presiding officer, responsible to them and not to the Throne. He urged the delegates to ponder carefully over this choice, and to find a man of strength, wisdom, and tact. To that end, the Assembly would be adjourned overnight.

  That evening was one of great festivity in Naddeghomra, celebrating this historic event. The streets were alive with people and music, and with many earnest discussions of what the new institution of the Assembly might mean. There was much outdoor feasting and revelry, and the sky was lit with fireworks.

  The next day, with a fanfare almost equal to its opening session, the Assembly reconvened at noon. Once more, the Emperor Jehan was at the podium, this time carrying a tall bronze staff emblazoned at its crown with Urhemma’s polished sun symbol.

  Thumping the staff upon the floor, Jehan brought the Assembly to order, and directly to its first business, the election of its president. He called for names to be nominated by the delegates, and at first, none of the timid commoners would rise. But upon Jehan’s third coaxing, an unknown man rose trepidatiously from his seat and named one Muhamar Chouris.

  “Very good,” Jehan said, and he called upon this Chouris to ascend the podium and introduce himself to the other delegates, so that they might judge his fitness for the presidency. The man turned out to be a middleaged salt dealer from Mughdad. He spoke very briefly, nervously, and received a few cheers.

  Despite this uncertain beginning, the ice was broken and eleven more candidates were proposed. Each nominee took his turn and addressed the delegates, but it was clear that only a few made much of an impression. Several soon spoke up to withdraw their names.

  Jehan solicited opinion on the remainder by means of a voice vote. Two of the nominees received easily the loudest response, and finally, the Assembly was asked to choose between them. Their favor fell upon a man named Razhak Taddhai, from Ganda Saingam, a tall white-bearded man who was a wine merchant and a veteran member of his city’s council. Jehan was much pleased. This Razhak Taddhai gave promise of being a fitting first president of the Urhemmedhin National Assembly.

  Taddhai returned to the podium amid the enthusiastic cheers of all the delegates and onlookers. With a ceremonious gesture, the Emperor handed him the bronze staff, to be his symbol of authority. Banging it forcefully upon the floor, Taddhai called the Assembly back to order, while Jehan retired to a special bench reserved for him, off to one side.

  Taddhai thanked the Assembly for its vote, and then proceeded to the next order of business, selection of someone charged with keeping a record of the proceedings. It took little time to settle upon a scribe from Prewtna named Mawurisay, who took up duties at a table beside Taddhai.

  And with these preliminaries accomplished, the Assembly of Prasid Urhemma got underway to make the laws.

  Every day they met, with only one day a week reserved for rest. The deliberations began in the morning and would last until dusk.

  These 350 were largely simple people, and they were starting virtually from scratch upon an undertaking entirely novel to their ken. But they did not shrink from tackling it. Perhaps it was the enthusiasm of innocence that gave them confidence in a project that would have intimidated more experienced hands.

  The Okhudzhava Decree had set forth their agenda in broad scope. The questions they had to consider were clear enough: “What should be the law of crop rent?” or “What should be the law of marriage contracts?” There was a wide range of questions, and they wrangled long and hard to arrive at answers.

  The Assembly quickly developed into a truly deliberative body. Each new topic brought forth a plethora of diverse ideas; some would be sheepishly withdrawn under criticism, others would be debated for days. Many of the delegates lacked the boldness to address the body, but they would listen attentively, express themselves in the taverns at night, and vote when the time came. Many, on the other hand, were unafraid to speak before the full Assembly, and so the debates were lively ones, punctuated by rough-and-tumble questioning and heckling. President Taddhai had his hands full keeping order.

  As they made the new laws, the clerk Mawurisay would write them down. Each law adopted by the Assembly would be transcribed in a clean copy, signed by Mawurisay and Razhak Taddhai, then by the Emperor Jehan himself, and then passed along to a corps of scribes Jehan had caused to be employed. These men would recopy the laws many times over for dispatch to all the provinces of Urhemma, while the original signed copies would remain for safekeeping as national treasures in The Maal.

  The Assembly, at Jehan’s suggestion, had early made a decision to address first in broad outline the most fundamental issues, concerning the most crucial rights of the Urhemmedhin people. Later, they could retrace their steps to fill in greater detail and tackle secondary matters.

  Many weeks were consumed in hammering out the rights regarding land and property—its ownership, transfer and rental, rights to water, the inheritance of property and its just taxation. An even more complex realm was that of crimes and punishment. But here too, the idea that people should have rights was not forgotten, and even criminals were given rights. Indeed, overlying the whole criminal code adopted by the Assembly was the elemental precept that no person should receive punishment except strictly according to the procedures of the law.

  No longer was the law limited to the question of which officials should have authority to determine and punish crime. The Urhemmedhin Assembly would give no such unbridled power to any official, not even the Emperor. Instead, those charged with responsibility for law and order would have to discharge it lawfully, in conformance with the code. Thus, a thief in Arbadakhar had a right to be treated the same as a thief in Jamarra. It was a completely new idea.

  Thus too, it was not only laws governing the people that the Assembly was enacting; they went far beyond that, and took upon themselves the power to establish laws for the conduct of government itself.

  This was truly a breakthrough, for the Assembly’s only authority sprang from the Okhudzhava Decree, which was a very generalized mandate. They were making a great leap of assumption, which although never actually articulated, was clear in their deeds; and the Emperor Jehan did not contradict it. These 350 farmers and tradesmen assumed to establish themselves as the ultimate political authority of Prasid Urhemma. This was where power would henceforward reside.

  The relationship of the Assembly’s authority to that of the Emperor was a question no one raised; probably they took for granted that the Emperor, who had created the Assembly, superseded it. But as long as Jehan kept to his resolve of respecting the Assembly’s every act, the question fortunately seemed academic.

  Thus the government which Jehan Henghmani and the National Assembly gave to Prasid Urhemma was of uncertain outlines. Its underlying principles had not been fully thought through, much less stated clearly. It was all rudimentary and rough; but Prasid Urhemma had established the beginnings of a republic.

  13

  JEHAN HENGHMANI HAD won more success and fulfillment than he’d ever imagined possible. Everything was his. And then Golana once more swelled with child.

  This tore him apart with anxiety, inasmuch as her first pregnancy had ended in tragedy—very nearly a double tragedy, in fact. Shaking him more than the loss of the child had been those horrible hours in which Golana’s life hung in the balance. The fear of losing her was worse than the tortures of Ksiritsa.

  Thus he was opposed to another pregnancy, and he begged Golana to take measures against it. But she would not hear of it; she insisted that she wanted a child. With great misgivings, Jehan acceded to her wish.

  His worry proved wasted; this time, the birth went smoothly. Golana brought forth a healthy, squalling, nine-pound boy. Jehan was overjoyed, as much that his wife was well as that she had given him a son.

  The baby exhibited Golana’s fairness of complexion, but only a wisp of her stra
ight Tnemghadi eyebrow. He had Jehan’s pug nose, but nevertheless was a pretty child who gave every promise of growing into a handsome boy.

  The naming of the baby occasioned much weighty deliberation; but they settled upon Golan.

  It was the name Golana’s father had originally picked out when he had hoped his child would be a boy; he had given her the feminine form of the name. Golan meant “wise ruler” in Urhemmedhin as well as Tnemghadi —and so Jehan named his son in honor of the wife who had borne him, as well as giving him a name to live up to, as heir to the Throne of Urhemma.

  Crown Prince Golan Henghmani was born on the twenty-fourth of Elgheber, 1188; it was a night of celebration and rejoicing.

  From the summit of Jehan’s palace tower, its big new bell was rung for the first time. Accompanying it were fireworks shot into the air, sunbursts in the night that lit up the white towers in flashes. The people of Naddeghomra knew instantly what the fireworks and bellringing meant. They poured out of their homes to watch the grand display in the sky, and to cheer the safe delivery of the child of the Ur-Rasvadhi.

  Jehan watched the fireworks too. Satisfied that Golana was resting comfortably and safe, he had come out to the tower’s roof to look up at the skyrockets bursting over his head. This was not the first time he had been to this high parapet, but tonight, Jehan Henghmani felt that he stood higher than ever before.

  In the flashing light of the fireworks, the people caught sight of him atop the tower, and by the thousands, they flocked there. The white marble plaza at the foot of the palace was black with the people as they gathered to look up at their Savior and cheer him.

  “Gavashat Jehan!” they cried in unison. “Long live Jehan!”

  “Gavashat Jehan! Gavashat Golan!”

  He raised his arms high into the sky, and they amplified their cheers. Again and again, he thrust his arms up vigorously.