“More than acceptable. I’ll be here. All I’ll be doing is writing a letter, working on that speech, and trying to figure out what to pack.”
“On that speech … don’t be so logical. Write down what you feel, whether it seems logical or not. After you’ve written what you feel strongly about, then make it logical.”
Dekkard smiled ruefully. “I’ll try that. What I’m doing isn’t working all that well.”
Little more than a third of a bell later, the Council was officially recessed. In moments, councilors began to leave the Hall and come out into the corridor. Dekkard kept watching, but he saw no sign of Obreduur. Finally, Obreduur appeared, walking with the Craft floor leader, Guilhohn Haarsfel, and Councilor Hasheem.
Haarsfel nodded to something Obreduur said, as did Hasheem, if after a moment.
Then Hasheem was joined by Erleen Orlov, who, as his isolate, was still handling security alone. Haarsfel, interestingly enough, appeared to have no security aides, at least not meeting him.
Obreduur motioned to Ysella and Dekkard, and they flanked him as he strode down the corridor toward the courtyard and the covered walkway to the Council Office Building. He did not speak until they were outside and no one else was that close.
“He spoke a little longer than usual. He didn’t say much besides the normal platitudes, that Guldor remained economically and militarily strong, that trade talks with Argental would prove fruitful, and repairs to the Security building were well underway. He also said that some minor demonstrations were a nuisance rather than a real danger and that the small size of the latest demonstration showed that whatever group was behind it was losing support.”
“He’s never mentioned dissidents before,” said Ysella. “Is the Council reconvening earlier than usual?”
“No. We go back in session at the usual date, Unadi, One Fallfirst.”
“No mention of the Kraffeist Affair?” asked Dekkard.
Obreduur smiled sardonically. “Steffan, that’s buried.”
“I forgot,” Dekkard declared dryly.
“By the way, you two did a very good job on the engineering paper, as you’ve called it. It could prove very useful at the right time.”
“When will that be?” asked Dekkard, suspecting that Ysella wanted to know.
“That depends on what happens for the rest of the year,” replied Obreduur. “How are you coming on that speech, Steffan?”
“I’m working on it, sir.”
“Let me see what you have at the end of the day.”
“Yes, sir.” Dekkard kept his voice pleasant, although the last thing he wanted was for the councilor to see what he had written.
“Good.”
When the three reached the office, once Obreduur closed his door, Dekkard ducked out and headed to the Council Banque, where he withdrew far more marks than he was usually comfortable carrying and then arranged for a more than modest letter of credit. That way he wouldn’t have to return to the banque and would have a backup if he needed marks in Oersynt.
When he returned, he immediately got out the speech and read over the first lines. He shook his head and started again. After almost a bell he read what he’d written.
When I first tried to explain why you should vote for the Craft Party, I tried to explain with numbers. Then I tried laws and the Great Charter. But none of that satisfied me, and if it didn’t satisfy me, it surely wouldn’t satisfy you. Why I believe in the Craft Party is simple. It’s the only party that is concerned with people, people like you and me. I don’t come from marks and other wealth …
When he finished reading it, Dekkard didn’t quite shake his head. It was better than what he’d tried before … but it definitely needed work … and possibly some additions, if he could figure out what they might be.
Just before fourth bell, Obreduur stepped out of his office and walked over to Dekkard.
Dekkard, who was looking at what he’d written and feeling a mixture of frustration and despair, looked up. “Yes, sir.”
“How are you coming? Are you happy with what you wrote?”
“What I wrote is how I feel, but it could be better.”
Almost gently, Obreduur asked, “Are you happy with it?”
“No, sir.”
Obreduur nodded. “Keep working on it until you are.” Then he turned and walked into the staff office.
Dekkard looked over at Ysella, who showed a bemused smile. He wanted to snap that it wasn’t all that amusing, but decided against it, instead asking quietly, “Is it that amusing?”
“You’re hoping one of us will help you out, but you’re the only one who can do that.”
While Dekkard knew she was right, it didn’t help any.
58
THE rest of Quindi passed slowly for Dekkard, filled with driving, first back to the house, then escorting the family to and from services at the East Quarter chapel, followed by the usual later dinner, after which he spent another bell struggling with his speech before going to bed.
Surprisingly, he slept late on Findi morning, and found an envelope from Ysella in the breakfast room. The note inside was simple.
Steffan—
I didn’t want to wake you. We’ll have dinner at Estado Don Miguel. We’ll pick you up at a third before six.
The signature was a single ornate “A.”
Dekkard read the note a second time, then replaced it in the envelope. Dinner at Estado Don Miguel definitely meant wearing a suit. He poured his café, took the last two croissants … and looked at the guava paste, before reluctantly adding two slices to his plate.
After breakfast and washing up, he settled in the empty staff room and wrote a letter to his mother, letting her know more about the new duties involved with his recent promotion and also when he’d be in Oersynt, while cautioning her that he didn’t know how much free time he might have, since Summerend recess wasn’t a vacation for him, but a working trip.
Once he sealed the letter and readied it to post, he took a deep breath.
Time to work on the Three-cursed speech.
A second thought occurred to him. You need to think about what you’ll take on the trip.
He shook his head, knowing that would just be procrastination. Instead, he looked at the latest draft of the speech. After rereading the first lines, he realized that no one cared about him, only how what the Craft Party did would affect them.
He took out a fresh sheet of paper, but sat there thinking for some time before he began to write. More than a bell passed before he had what might be the beginning of a beginning. He read it slowly.
Let me start by asking you all a basic question. Do we really need politics and political parties? Why? When you think about it, all life is a balance between what each of us thinks is best for us personally and what is best for our community as a whole. Experience has taught us that we need rules. Those rules should protect each of us from the worst people and impulses in our community, but also protect the community from attack …
After rereading what he’d managed to put down, the next question was what he should say next … or should what he said next depend on the group and the situation?
He took another deep breath. He’d listened to Obreduur speak more than a few times, but what he’d written didn’t sound like the councilor. But he said to write it from your heart and not his.
After writing for a time, he gathered the papers together and took them upstairs to his room. There, he went through his limited wardrobe to see what would be best to pack for the upcoming trip.
At fifth bell he quickly began to restore order to his room and small closet, before washing up and readying himself for dinner. Well before the time Ysella had asked him to be ready, he came down the staff stairs wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, and a blue cravat with narrow, diagonal gray stripes. He did put his silver staff pin on his lapel, although he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. He also carried his knives and his personal-length truncheon.
Almost to the mi
nute promised in Ysella’s note, Emrelda’s teal Gresynt pulled up on Altarama opposite the pedestrian gate. Even before he entered the steamer, Dekkard was glad he had worn the suit, given that both sisters were in similar semi-formal dinner dresses, with the near-transparent headscarves they both preferred. Emrelda was in deep green, Ysella in red.
As he climbed into the rear seat, Emrelda turned to her sister. “You’re right. He could pass for a theatre idol.”
Dekkard winced, but said to Ysella, “Did you tell her to say that?”
“She didn’t,” replied Emrelda with a mischievous grin. “She did say she thought you were that handsome, but not to tell you.”
Dekkard wasn’t totally surprised to see Ysella blush slightly.
“That’s just payback for the story about Haarlakt,” added Emrelda, easing the Gresynt into a U-turn and heading back down Altarama toward Imperial Boulevard.
“You already had your payback with the story about Tammal,” mock-protested Ysella.
“What did you do today, Steffan?” asked Emrelda, not looking in her sister’s direction.
“First, I read a note directing me where to be,” replied Dekkard, trying to replicate the officious tone of a certain legalist. “Then I ate breakfast, suffering horribly through the guava paste necessary to impart some sweetness and taste to my croissants. After that, I labored over a dull speech, endeavoring to put some life into it. Following that drudgery, I searched through my sparse wardrobe to determine what I should pack for the forthcoming trek through the wilds of Gaarlak, Oersynt, and Malek. In the end, declaring everything but the contents of the note in vain, I dressed for dinner.”
Ysella tried not to laugh … but failed. Then she shook her head. “You sound so much like Fernand Stoltz.”
“That’s because I was trying to.”
“Whoever Fernand is, after that I don’t think I’d want to meet him,” declared Emrelda.
“He wouldn’t want to meet you,” replied Ysella, “especially if you were in uniform. He doesn’t like to recognize any authority except himself.”
“Can you imitate anyone else?” asked Emrelda.
“I really couldn’t even imitate Fernand,” demurred Dekkard. “It’s more my feel of what he’s like.”
“It’s an excellent feel,” said Ysella.
Dekkard wouldn’t have known, but he trusted Ysella’s judgment.
Emrelda found a parking space less than a block from the five-story building, and the three walked to the nearest entrance, the one above which, five stories up, was the silver and black metal plaque that bore the name NORDSTAR.
“Has either of you been inside the Nordstar offices?” asked Emrelda.
“We’re security aides for a Crafter,” said Ysella. “Unless we went with the councilor, the only aide to be allowed in there would be Ivann Macri, and only if it involved a technical legal matter.”
“That’s too bad. I always wondered if the offices were as pretentious as the building.”
“Do you even have to wonder?” asked Ysella.
Emrelda laughed softly.
Once they entered Estado Don Miguel, Emrelda stepped forward and declared, “Party of three—Roemnal.”
The maître d’hôtel—who wasn’t the same one as when Ysella had taken Dekkard to the restaurant before—nodded and said, “Of course, Ritten Roemnal.” Before he led them to a table set for three, his eyes lingered on Dekkard for just an instant.
That surprised Dekkard, but he had to assume that had something to do with Obreduur, and he said nothing until they were seated and momentarily alone. “Ritten Roemnal?”
Both sisters smiled.
Then Ysella said, “We’re paying for it, but Obreduur arranged it. He just said it was a small thing, and that Emrelda deserved it.”
Dekkard thought for a moment, then said cautiously, “Does your father hold the title of Ritter?”
The two exchanged glances, almost guiltily.
Then Ysella said, “The title, and most of the original lands, but the marks from the lands barely support Father and Cliven.”
You knew they were Landors, but from the ancient landed nobility? That also explained the maître d’hôtel’s glance at Dekkard, most likely assessing him as their security aide.
“It’s only a courtesy title for daughters,” added Emrelda. “Obreduur was stretching matters.”
“Which he loves to do when he can secretly poke fun at Landors and Commercers,” added Ysella.
“I haven’t seen him do that often.” While Dekkard had heard certain veiled statements and asides the councilor had made, he really hadn’t thought that much of it at those times, possibly because he agreed with Obreduur.
Trying to gather his thoughts, Dekkard let his eyes roam around the restaurant, noting that the tables already occupied held well-dressed men and women, early as it was, and that none of the conversations were what he would have called boisterous. He glanced down at the starched and spotless white linens and napkins.
He managed an amused smile when he looked up. “You two never cease to surprise me.”
“Aren’t women supposed to do that … occasionally, anyway?” asked Emrelda.
“I don’t know whether you’re supposed to, but you certainly do,” replied Dekkard dryly.
Ysella smiled warmly. “Now that we’ve surprised you, we all should enjoy dinner.”
Dekkard knew she meant it … and that there would be no more surprises … for the evening, at least.
59
THE pleasure of the dinner at Estado Don Miguel was short-lived, because the next morning, the first day of Summerend, Dekkard began packing for Duadi’s departure. He’d largely finished when Ritten Obreduur enlisted his strong back to carry the heavier suitcases down to the side hall leading to the portico. Not long after he finished carting those, Obreduur asked him into the study, where he read the latest draft of Dekkard’s speech.
The councilor’s comments were direct. “Your introduction is adequate. Possibly better, depending on how you deliver it. You’ve provided a general reason for them to support you and the party, but you’ve given no specifics. No gut reasons they can latch on to.”
“Sir … I’m not the councilor. I hesitated to give specific legislation in your name.” Part of that was because Dekkard couldn’t recall a specific measure presented by Obreduur.
Obreduur smiled. “That doesn’t mean you can’t take a stand on a specific issue. If you’re going to speak for me, I’ll have to read what you’d say, of course. You haven’t heard me be too detailed. Detailed legislative measures presented to the public always get a councilor in trouble. You need to mention a specific point without technical details.”
“Like saying all large military procurements need to be made public?”
“That’s general enough, but most people don’t care about naval procurements.”
“That basic foods shouldn’t face high tariffs?”
Obreduur shook his head. “First, most people don’t understand tariffs. Second, if you lower tariffs on swampgrass rice, for example, some farmworkers will lose their jobs.”
“What about establishing a minimum wage for all full-time workers?”
“Then manufactories will just hire part-time workers.”
Dekkard began to wonder if Obreduur was toying with him, but he said, “What about saying near-starvation wages are unacceptable for the work that Guldoran workers provide?”
“That’s better. Especially since some textile manufactories still pay near-starvation wages.”
“What about requiring healthy workplaces?”
“That would work as well.”
“What if someone asks how exactly we’ll provide that?”
“Ask them, what is their biggest concern in where they work? If it’s a newsie, tell them that, beyond basic safety rules, standards have to be developed on an industry-by-industry basis by both guilds and manufactories, because the guilds know what’s safe and what’s not and the manufa
ctories have to pay for the changes.”
“Being specific without being too detailed, then?” asked Dekkard dryly.
“There’s no point in being too detailed. The Council will change what anyone proposes to some extent. If I give any specific number, then I’ll be held to it, even when I can’t do anything about it. That’s true of any councilor, not just me.” He offered an amused smile. “Now … if you can get a guildmeister or a corporacion functionary to come up with a number, you can say that they recommended that number … and then we’re not tied to it. Or if it’s a bad number, you can say that it’s too high or too low, and that gives us room to maneuver.”
All that made sense to Dekkard. He just hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.
“That’s enough for now,” said Obreduur. “I need to get back to packing and writing some last-moment messages, but see if you can come up with a nonspecific specific that’s not general and will appeal to both Craft voters and others. You’re on the right rails. Just keep at it.”
Dekkard walked from the study, thinking. He wants you to be able to make speeches for him. On this trip? What is it about Gaarlak?
When he stepped into the staff room, he was so preoccupied that he almost ran into Ysella, who carried a small and narrow cloth-wrapped package. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. I was looking for you anyway.” She handed him the package. “These are for you. You need to bring them with you on the trip.”
“I do?”
“They’re formal cravats. I’ve noticed that cravats tend to suffer when there are receptions and dinners, and you won’t have time to buy more.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Steffan, they’re not that expensive, and you’ve been really sweet with Emrelda. They’re a present, but please pack them.” Before Dekkard could object, she went on, “You were just talking to Obreduur, weren’t you?”
“I was … about my speech.” Before she could say anything, he went on. “There’s something different about this trip, isn’t there? Not just about Gaarlak, either.”
“That would be my guess. He hasn’t said anything to me … except that it’s important, and that I could be helpful with women’s guilds there.”
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