A rising murmur of heckling erupted into ironic cheers and slow hand-clapping.
“Order please, ladies and gentlemen,” called the Speaker.
Sebastian Fiesler-Cohen got helped to his feet by an assistant.
“We have been idealistic to assume that anyone who could afford the annual fee must be competent. I think we should review the screening of new members.”
The Speaker waited until the groans of approval eased.
“Our current rules allow each speaker twenty minutes. The member Professor Banner still has four minutes remaining.”
Professor Banner ruffled his notes, glanced at his watch and resumed.
“I will make one announcement. On Saturday 30th October, the National Party will hold its annual conference in Brent Cross industrial asylum. It’s an opportunity to learn more about the Party and meet its council. You are all cordially invited to attend. Thank you for your attention.”
Laughter and jeers washed him back to his seat. Donald was both surprised and disappointed by this exhibition of schoolboy tribalism. He was going to that annual conference. What Banner proposed was the solution to the abominable discharges of surplus. Donald sensed, if as yet only vaguely, that a crucial event had occurred in his life. He also sensed, again as yet only vaguely, that his life was going to be more dangerous.
TK stood up and rapped the top of his seat with a Britannia coin.
“I beg to speak!”
“Does the house object?” called the Speaker. Despite some grousing from Shellingfield and a few of his allies, no member formally objected. “You have two minutes.”
“Let us remember why the Glorious Resolution happened. Fundamentally, the Public Era was based on the dangerous idealism that everyone has the right to whatever they want. Trying to give everything to everyone just can’t work. The Public Era mined out its own future with debt, it crammed the planet with tourism and traffic, it razed the ancient forests, it poisoned the oceans, it even threatened to wreck the climate of this Earth. It stacked such a tower of debt that there could be only one end. What you must understand is that the National Party is leading us down the same road to ruin; they’re driven by pious rectitude, not pragmatism. Over all our petty squabbles and rivalries, we the sovereign class must prevent the recrudescence of the Fatted Masses. That is why we sovereigns must unite to control the problem—”
“You just want to keep your bloody oil fields!” jeered Augustus Shellingfield.
“Silence in the house!” The Speaker banged his staff. TK just shook his head and sat down.
“Troubled times are coming, Donald. That’s what I brought you here to understand.”
*
After the session closed at 5 pm, TK led Donald from the Lords Chamber to the upper level of the Palace of Westminster. Here was a place of marble-floored corridors and grand doors of brass or carved hardwood guarded by sovereign marines in a variety of uniforms, some of which, notably the Shellingfields’, appeared fanciful enough to belong in a children’s fairy tale. Behind these doors were the private suites of the wealthier members. TK stopped at two young toughs. Each wore a pale blue beret, camouflage smock, puttees and black boots. Each carried a holstered pistol on the hip.
“Good evening, my loyal marines,” TK said.
“Good evening, Your Decency.”
TK unlocked an ordinary wooden door and led Donald into what he would have described as a hall, with a high wood-panelled ceiling from which hung brass chandeliers on chains. It was like a courtroom. TK explained it had been a committee room of the old national parliament. Most of the furniture conformed to that functional style. The marked exception was a small Art Nouveau table under one of the Gothic windows. This table had more the appearance of a shrine. A silver-framed photograph stood surrounded by fresh hellebore of such a deep purple they were almost black. The photograph was too distant for Donald to make out details as TK led him to some deep leather armchairs facing the log fire. TK passed over a box of cigarettes. Donald did not smoke, so merely took the odd puff without inhaling. TK drew deeply, obviously finding the effect satisfying.
“It’s been a useful afternoon for you, Donald. You’ve seen the rancour of the Assembly. It’s a jungle, a constant battle for survival. The Shellingfields will never give up trying to get their paws on our oil fields at Winchester and the Isle of Purbeck. The awkward fact is both oilfields lie bang on the border with their lands. Nothing can change that”
TK was silent for a few minutes, staring into the fire. Donald waited, regretting having taken a cigarette as he felt silly holding it.
“Two weeks ago, I summoned you to my lands on a flight that ended in disaster, as a result of which I have lost time and gold. It may amuse you to learn what you are worth. The Dasti-Jones clan accepted compensation of five thousand ounces and monthly deliveries of one hundred barrels of oil for twelve months.”
“What is a barrel of oil worth, Your Decency?”
“A lot more to our enemies than our friends,” TK smiled. “The total package came to about fifteen thousand ounces, with some additional bits and pieces of intelligence we shared.”
The sum was more than Donald had ever earned in a year. His income typically averaged just under a thousand ounces per month. Not much of it stayed in his pocket. Life was a constant struggle to maintain the appearances befitting a sovereign-class wife.
“Anyway,” TK said. “You must be wondering why I called you out to our lands.”
“That is the case, Your
