“I need you to solve a serious problem. Do you recall a chap named Pezzini?”
“He was your appointed regent.”
Donald remembered an enormous, dark brown man with a shining bald head and bulky, shapeless body. On the few occasions he had attempted conversation during receptions at Wilson House, Pezzini had proved humourless and reticent.
“He was a spay—a eunuch—poor fellow. I always thought Pezzini was the model of probity until one day recently I discovered he was not reliable. I had to let him go.”
In the silence, the logs crackled. The fire spat an ember that landed on the floor near Donald’s left shoe. He reached down and flicked it back into the fire, closely followed by the cigarette.
“Let him go where, Your Decency?”
“He won’t be back.”
Donald had no idea what to say, so kept his peace.
“As you can imagine, it’s a mighty blow for the clan to lose someone of that calibre. There is only one candidate who combines the necessary qualifications to replace him. I think you’d be a splendid chap to take over, Donald.”
Donald was so amazed he had at first no idea what to say. It was extraordinary for a common outsider to be invited into the deepest privacy of a sovereign land. The appointed regent presided over the Land Council of Krossington, the ruling assembly of the Lands of Krossington. Donald had heard all about the Land Council through Lavinia, whose elder brother was a member and griped constantly about a ‘common neuter’ ruling over sovereigns, that is, when he was not griping about his fellow nobles. Donald supposed the Land Council was like the Westminster Assembly, a hot-air house where spoiled, petty-minded idlers vented their spleens.
But he was in no position to be picky. He needed a miracle to repair his finances and that miracle had just fallen into his lap!
“I’m completely astonished, Your Decency.”
“I thought you would be. I’ve had to work quite hard to get you accepted. My brother Marcus-John—and not a few others—felt that a common outsider could not be trusted with our secrets. However, there is great respect for your impartiality and competence.”
“Would I have to move to Castle Krossington, Your Decency?”
“No. You would be free to continue your practice here in town, although there would be restrictions on the clients you could engage. The commitment would be two to three days per month. You’ll get a salary of 750 ounces, freedom of the Lands of Krossington, all flights and insurance… The usual stuff. Oh, and your daughters can school at the Krossington Institute if you like.”
If you like? 750 ounces for three days’ work per month? Guaranteed steady income? No more school fees and his daughters schooling with sovereign offspring? For a self-employed man with a thin caseload and a spendthrift wife?
“You’re a fine salesman, Your Decency.”
TK smiled and extended his right hand. They shook on it.
“I was 99% sure you’d accept. It’s a good step up for you both socially and professionally.”
He made his way over to a drinks cabinet and returned with a couple of sherries. Donald sipped. Two problems of his own nagged for attention: the unpaid invoice and the matter of brother Lawrence. He decided to start with the unpaid invoice.
“It must have got overlooked in the ruckus caused by Pezzini’s exposure and then my idiot cousin Cecil trying to be a flying boat captain,” TK said, making a note in a little memo book.
A feeling of deep reassurance flooded Donald. Few things are as pleasant as a safe income in place of gaping chasms. He ruminated upon the matter of Lawrence and decided to let the matter sleep. TK had invested his whole reputation into Donald’s becoming appointed regent. If any trouble arose from the Oban direction, TK would bury it. There was no way in hell he could dump his appointed regent without dumping himself.
Donald was in any case exploring contacts at his sports club and inn of court to find a link into the personnel records of General Wardian. Once he got his hands on Lawrence’s file, he would have solid evidence on which to proceed. As he was considering this, the air rumbled—the Naclaski batteries of the Grande Enceinte were in action again. They had fired several times during the Assembly session.
“Why is there so much background these days, Your Decency?” he asked. “It’s far worse now than before I got interned.”
“It’s the radicals. The National Party have radio trucks out on the public drains. They beam a few minutes of their crap and then move before the glory trusts have time to fix the location and shoot. 99% of those salvos are a waste of good gold.”
“I’ve managed to live my life until now without encountering the National Party. Why is it suddenly everywhere?”
“Because that’s what happens when something grows exponentially from nothing. Imagine a lake with a single lily on it. The next day there are two lilies, the day after, four and so on. Let us say it will take thirty days to cover the whole lake. On what day do you think anyone would even notice the lilies?”
“Maths is not my strong point, Your Decency.”
“I’d say on Day 26. By then one sixteenth—about 6%—of the lake would be covered. In the last four days the lilies would sweep over the whole lake. No one except a few like me took any notice of the National Party for years—as a young man I was involved with the old SUN Party along with Banner. Our moderate, entirely peaceful campaign for reform became infected with murderous radicalism. That was the real cause of the Sack of Oxford. It cured me of any appetite for reform.”
He gazed into the fire for a long time. His eyes grew glassy. He frowned, sniffed, and shook himself. Then he glared at Donald with a frightful intensity.
“I know you feel at least a degree of sympathy with what Banner proposes. It seems so beguiling. Yet he’s a dangerous fool who learned nothing from the Sack of Oxford,
