by D. A. Adams
“How was it?” the server asked, clearing the table after he was done.
“How much for another ale?”
“I can’t serve you another.”
She explained to him that in the business sections drinks were limited to one per meal. If he wanted to drink to excess, he would have to go to one of the taverns in the indulgent section of town, where he could find gambling, alcohol, and a wide variety of physical pleasures. The Marshwoggs believed that those habits were a necessary part of life for relieving tension, but that the individuals wishing not to partake should not be encumbered by the ones who did. Therefore, most Marshwogg towns relegated one area for indulgence and mandated that other areas adhere to moderation and restraint.
“In that case,” he said, standing and gathering his other coins. “Thank you for the wonderful meal.”
“No, thank you. Come back for supper. We hope your friends come by as well.”
“My friends,” Roskin asked, surprised that a server in a tavern knew about them.
“From the mountains. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Really?” he said.
“We’re glad to have you here.”
Bewildered, he excused himself from the restaurant and went outside. For a few minutes, he stood in its walkway and wondered about what she had said. His intuition gave him no feelings of ill towards them, but something about these creatures made him uneasy. Finally, he returned to the street and walked through the business sections, admiring the variety of goods and services available in such a small town.
In his own kingdom, a town of this size would only have at most two tailors, blacksmiths, bakers, and butchers, each offering basically the same products of the same quality, but this town had several of each one. The individual tailors offered different styles and grades of clothing. Likewise, the different bakers provided different styles of bread and pastries. Every other business was like that, as well, and Roskin stopped into a cobbler’s shop to buy a new pair of boots, if he could afford them with what he had left.
Inside the shop, the smell of leather and polish was pungent, but otherwise the place was clean and well-organized. The front of the store had several racks of various boots and shoes, and for a moment, Roskin was overwhelmed with so much choice. He hadn’t been in the shop for more than a few heartbeats when a Marshwogg appeared from the back and offered to assist him. Roskin marveled that so many of them spoke the common language. He explained that he needed a good pair of boots that could withstand extremely long marches but also offer good footing in battle.
The Marshwogg measured the dwarf’s foot and went to the back to retrieve a couple of different styles. He returned with a pair in each hand and motioned for Roskin to sit. The dwarf obeyed, and the Marshwogg removed the tattered, blood-stained leather strips he had been wearing for two months. The first pair of boots were uncomfortable, but the second wrapped around his foot and ankle like a warm pillow. He stood and tested them, and not only were they comfortable, they gripped the wooden floor and provided excellent footing, as well.
“How much?” he asked, holding out his coins.
“I’m afraid you’ll need about five more of those.”
Roskin stared ahead, his mouth agape. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t afford to purchase something he wanted, and the feeling was maddening. He began to remove the boots, but the Marshwogg stopped him.
“Let me make you this offer,” he said. “I have some materials around back that need to be hauled to the end of this street. I’ll pay you the five coins if you’ll do that labor for me.”
Remembering how much he had enjoyed working on Kwarck’s farm, Roskin agreed to the deal and followed the Marshwogg out back. Scraps of leather and other materials were stacked in a dozen barrels, and the cobbler directed Roskin to empty them into the bins on the back of a large wagon at the end of the street but not to throw away the barrels. Roskin went to work, hoisting each barrel in a bear-hug and muscling it to the bins. Within an hour, his clothes were soaked with sweat, but the job was finished, so he returned to the cobbler to make sure they were settled.
“Fine work,” the cobbler said, patting the dwarf on the back. “I’m glad we could make the trade.”
“Me, too,” Roskin replied. “I’m just curious, though. What will the owner think of it? Won’t this mess up tax collection?”
“Well, I’m one of the owners, and since the others didn’t want to haul all that scrap themselves, I’m sure they won’t mind.”
“There’s more than one owner? Do all of you work in the shop like common laborers?”
“Of course!” the Marshwogg gasped as if Roskin had said something bizarre. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“In my culture, there’s the ruling class who govern, the management class who own and oversee businesses, and the working class who perform the manual labor.”
The Marshwogg stared in disbelief.
“Why does that seem so strange?” Roskin said. “That’s what I’ve seen pretty much everywhere else I’ve been, too.”
“These ruling and management classes, what do they do for income?” the Marshwogg asked, still staring.
“They make sure things run properly.”
“But how do they know to run things if they don’t work?”
“That is their work. Some people are good at labor, while others are good at organizing.”
The Marshwogg described for Roskin how all businesses within the republic were owned and managed by the people who worked in that business. Wages were determined by the quality and quantity of work performed in making a product or providing a service, so each person within the business had an incentive to grow, improve, and progress the venture. In order to have leadership and vision, most businesses would elect their most talented individuals as managers to guide the others. As long as the manager performed well, that person would stay in charge until a change was needed. Of course, some businesses failed because of poor leadership, ineffective labor, or bad craftsmanship, but the consumers within a community determined that by choosing whether or not to do business there.
“As far as taxes, we’ll pay our 10% just as if you had paid the full amount.”
“The business pays 10%, so how much of your income do you then have to pay, as well?”
“I don’t.”
“Come on!” Roskin exclaimed. “You can’t just pay 10%.”
“Why? How does it work in your kingdom?”
“Each business pays 15 to 25%, based on sales, and then each laborer pays the same from their wages.”
“So you tax both the transaction and the worker? How does anybody own anything in your kingdom?”
“Well, the king maintains all the mines and cities and passages. Then, there are the schools and the military, and of course the granaries.”
“That sounds painfully inefficient.”
“My kingdom is very efficient,” Roskin almost shouted, his temper flaring. “We work hard to keep it as lean as possible. We are a very successful nation.”
“I meant no disrespect. We have our way that works for us, and you have your way.”
Roskin took a deep breath and let his temper dissipate. He didn’t want to argue with someone who had been so friendly. Besides, despite his uneasiness, he was intrigued by the way these strange people operated. He had grown up studying the economic history and evolution of his kingdom, and he could see some advantages to this system. His kingdom hindered competition and innovation and, as such, could not evolve beyond its current form without major changes. From this epiphany, he wanted more than ever to return home and share what he had learned with his father.
“Thank you for the boots,” he said. “I’m grateful for your kindness.”
“You’re welcome, my friend. I’m grateful for your assistance. I hate emptying the barrels.”
“When I see my friends, I’ll send them here for their own boots. I’m sure they’ll need them.”
“Thank you. Come b
ack and visit me anytime. My partners will be here later, too. We expect a lot of business, so we’re all going to work the next few days.”
Roskin said goodbye and returned to the street. After marching for so long in the crude strips of leather, he had almost forgotten how good it felt to walk in comfortable boots. The more he moved in them, the better they fit his feet. His personal cobbler, who had fitted him for footwear his entire life and made what Roskin had thought were good shoes and boots, had never made anything as exquisite as this pair.
As he walked around, he saw that the first of the freed slaves were entering town, so he moved towards them to find his friends and show them around. As he walked among the dwarves and elves, he quickly realized that the only ones in town were the wounded and elderly. He was bothered that - other than a few who carried the seriously wounded, including Vishghu - none of the healthy were in town, so he headed back towards the guard tower to find out why. As he walked, a flood of terrible thoughts went through his head, and he feared that something unspeakable had happened to them. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt that he had been suckered into some trap, and his friends were paying the price for his clumsiness. By the time he reached the tower, the magistrate was already long gone, and the new guard offered little on the situation. The fear morphing into anger, Roskin got directions for finding the magistrate and stormed back to town.
He found the house easily, and it was the same as most of the others he had seen, modest and pragmatic, warm and inviting. He pounded on the door and waited for a response. After a couple of minutes, he could hear someone stirring inside, so he knocked again, in case they hadn’t heard him. In a few heartbeats, the magistrate opened the door, smiling at the Kiredurk.
“Where are my friends?” Roskin asked, a hint of threat in his voice.
“They’re all over town,” Rewokog returned, the smile fading from his thin face. “I led them here myself.”
“There’s only the ones needing medicine. Where are the others?”
“Son of Kraganere, watch your tone on my doorstep.”
On the street, a handful of passersby gathered to watch the scene.
“Just tell me where my friends are. Why are they not in town?”
“I have only shown you respect and courtesy, young dwarf. Don’t insult me at my home.”
Roskin turned and stepped off the magistrate’s porch, trying to calm his temper. The gathering crowd murmured to each other about what was going on, but Roskin ignored them. He only wanted to know where Crushaw and others had gone if not into town. They were tired and hungry and, because of his selfishness, had been left in the mountains longer than was necessary. He couldn’t fathom why they weren’t with the wounded and elderly, and his fear and anger had clogged his judgment.
Suddenly, a group of Marshwoggs surrounded him, and one spoke with the magistrate. Roskin was trapped and considered overpowering one of them and running for the mountains, but he thought better of that. The magistrate and leader continued to croak at each other, and when they finished, the leader turned back to the officers and motioned for them to move aside. Roskin was left facing the magistrate with an even larger crowd watching the episode.
“By our laws,” Rewokog said. “I could send you to jail for creating this disturbance, but I admire your passion for your friends.”
Roskin bowed his head in humble thanks.
“Hopefully, this news will ease your mind. Your leader chose to keep the healthy ones outside of town to keep from overwhelming our resources while the wounded are tended to. To my knowledge, they are safe and should be receiving food as we speak.”
“Please, forgive me,” Roskin returned, looking the magistrate in the eyes. The fear had subsided, and he suddenly felt ridiculous. “You’ve treated me as a friend, and I’ve returned it with suspicion and foolishness.”
“I accept. Let’s forget this.”
Roskin extended his hand, and the magistrate shook it firmly. The crowd, satisfied that the scene was resolved, continued on their ways, but the peace officers lingered a while longer to make sure their magistrate was safe. Motioning with his long arms, Rewokog croaked at them, and they moved further down the street. Then, the magistrate asked the dwarf to enter his home to continue their conversation from the tower, and Roskin accepted, glad to have met such a kind, forgiving person. After supper, they talked late into the night, explaining their customs and laws to each other, and before Roskin left, Rewokog gave him a book that illustrated in detail how Marshwogg laws and economics work. It had been Rewokog’s textbook as a boy, and Roskin cradled the gift in his arm, hopeful that once he returned home he would have the time to study it.
Chapter 8
Traveling Home
Molgheon sat by a campfire, her belly full of crawfish. She and the others had been camped outside of town for a week, and each night she had eaten her fill of the most amazing food she had ever tasted. For most of her life, she had survived off of what game she could catch in the wild and had rarely had access to spices or herbs. Most of her meals had been bland acts of necessity, and as she savored the last bite of this one, she realized just how much comfort and joy she had missed.
The elves healthy enough to travel were leaving the next morning. They would head north along the mountains until they reached a western pass that led to Lake Vassa. From there, they would make their way - either on the lake or by foot - to the Koorleine Forest. The trip would take them nearly two months and was extremely dangerous, since most of the territory was controlled by the Great Empire. There were barely 300 of them able to travel, so they wouldn’t be able to fight any kind of a pitched battle. On the other hand, it would be difficult to move that many secretly, and if they were caught, they would face either a return to bondage or execution. Still, they were ready to be among their kin, and since they had fulfilled their oaths to Crushaw, none could rightfully stop them.
Roskin had decided to travel with them, for in his words, there was trouble in his kingdom that needed his attention. He explained that something had happened to his father, something terrible, and that a great peril threatened his people. Molgheon wasn’t sure how he knew this, but after looking in his eyes, she knew that at least he believed it to be so. He would follow the elves to the forest and turn northwest back to Kwarck’s. From there, he would cut west, stopping among the outcasts to retrieve his friend, Bordorn, and then continuing to the eastern gate.
Since the trip from the forest to the gate would consume two more months, Molgheon had decided to travel with him. She was also ready to be among her kin, and even though the Marshwoggs were kind, generous people, she longed for the shadows of the western mountains and the murmur of the Yuejdeon River. These lands, though fertile and temperate, were still foreign, and the truth be known, she feared Roskin traveling that far alone.
To her right, Crushaw lay stretched out on his back, staring at the stars. He was also full of crawfish, and in the flickering light of the campfire, he looked as calm and content as Molgheon had seen him. He wouldn’t be traveling with them, for Vishghu was still too seriously wounded to move. Even though she was getting better, she needed a couple more weeks to allow the deep lacerations to heal, and Crushaw intended to fulfill his promise of returning with her to Kwarck’s farm and serving his banishment.
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done,” he said to Molgheon. “I haven’t told you before, but we wouldn’t have made it without you.”
“It was nothing,” she said. “Just good to be more than a barkeep to drunk Ghaldeons.”
“You’re a good soldier.”
“You, too,” she said, wanting to tell him to forget what had happened before, but the memories that made her despise touch were too painful. She couldn’t say anything more.
“Take care of Roskin,” Crushaw continued. “Make sure he gets home. He’ll be a good king some day.”
“Maybe,” she returned. “I had my doubts at first, poor thing.”
As her words fade
d, Leinjar appeared by the campfire and asked to join them. Molgheon motioned for him to sit and offered the last of her crawfish. He accepted and gobbled them down quickly. All the leisure slaves ate that way, and Molgheon, who had known starvation herself, understood the impetus to scarf food. For many years after the War of Resistance had ended, she had eaten all of her meals in less than a minute for fear that someone hungrier and stronger might snatch them away.
“We’ve been talking about it,” Leinjar said after he had swallowed the last bite. “And we want to go with you and the tall one.”
By “we” Molgheon knew he meant himself and the last two remaining leisure slaves from the Slithsythe. All three were Tredjards who had spent nearly as much of their lives in bondage as free.
“What we had before the cage is gone forever, and we owe you and the tall one our lives. We want to serve as your guards, if you’ll have us.”
“Who says I need a guard?” Molgheon asked.
“I do, for one,” Crushaw said. “It’s none of my business, but that would ease my mind. There’s a lot of ground from the forest to Kwarck’s. Five can watch each other much better than two.”
“What are you talking about?” Roskin asked, sitting beside Crushaw.
“The Tredjards want to go with us,” Molgheon said. “They don’t think we can make it on our own.”
“That’s not what I said,” Leinjar returned, shaking his head. “We respect your skills, but...”
“Leinjar, I’m just teasing you,” Molgheon said, laughing out loud and slapping him on the shoulder.