“Let’s not distract ourselves from our purpose today, gentlemen.” Martin cleared his throat. “We’ve all read the news: The Algaraan Malik has fallen.”
Hargreaves knew that if he had not been present, Kilworth and Martin would’ve exchanged a few choice words about the barbarity of the Algaraans.
As it was, they both turned a pointed gaze on him.
Before answering, Hargreaves poured himself a drink from the decanter. “Undoubtedly, war is coming.” He put the decanter down. “How can it not? It is inevitable that the Morish commoners will look to their neighbors in the west and wonder if their own aristos can burn the same way.”
“Can you be so sure?”
“You should be glad, Martin.” It was Kilworth who answered the tradesman with soft mockery. “There’s money to be made in times of war. Plenty of opportunity for a businessman like yourself.”
An ugly pink trailed up Martin’s thick neck. Hargreaves didn’t intervene; there were more pressing matters on his mind than Martin’s hurt pride.
“Algaraans—not to be insulting, eh, Hargreaves?—are a passionate sort,” Kilworth continued. “Mors—from the chimney sweeps all the way up to the factory owners—are a practical people. Loyalty to our King, and to the nobility who serve the King so righteously, is in our blood. Rebellion won’t happen here.”
A headache swirled behind Hargreaves’s eyelids. He never suffered fools.
“Our King is infirm,” Martin argued. “Everyone knows that His Majesty has taken to his bed, and the young prince is still on leading strings.” He ignored Kilworth’s sneering protests. “His Highness isno longerthe strong leader that is needed to guide this country through these times of uncertainty. In fact, he makes the aristos look weak. I’ve heard a few other tradesmen remark that it no longer makes sense to have a country ruled by those with noble blood when it’s the factory owners who possess the most significant amount of wealth.”
“Do you also share these treasonous thoughts?” Kilworth asked Martin with disgust, anger making his freckles brighter. He neverhid his distrust of Martin, revolted by his lowborn dreams and the way the tradesman vacillated between penny-pinching and displays of crass, vulgar wealth.
Martin negotiated like a boxer in stock meetings, ruthless in his acquisitions and cruel with his workers. Despite that, he still possessed an inherited awe of the gentry, and an obsession with the differences in breeding. “Of course I do not,” Martin seethed. “My daughter will soon marry the son of a Baron, then she will bear him heirs. I am safeguarding the birthright of my future grandchildren.”
Hargreaves allowed himself only a small smile. It washewho had arranged the nuptials, by threatening the Baron that if he did not agree to the alliance, then Hargreaves would expect the payment of all the money the Baron owed him in one fell swoop.
Through this marriage, the power Hargreaves gained over Martin was considerable.
“The Malik’s greatest mistake was that he underestimated the working class. He could not control them even with the skilled Morish soldiers our King sent to aid him.” Hargreaves brought his wine back to his lips, but it now tasted bitter. “Our way of life—the life of the ruling class—is quickly vanishing.We must not let this happen.Anarchy will be the result.”
Apprehensive silence met this statement.
Martin broke it. “Who will follow the Malik once they execute him?”
“Commander Yosif will attempt to form a government, but he is inexperienced, and vultures are plentiful,” Hargreaves said. “The entire country will soon be destabilized, and a civil war will likely ensue.” The pause that followed was loaded. “That is why wemustcrush any and all rebellious sentiment among the Mors before it festers and infects this beloved country.”
“If it comes down to bloodshed, to us versus the commoners…could we win?” Kilworth brushed a handkerchief across the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead.
“Has the Malik kept his head?” Martin murmured.
Kilworth flushed but doggedly continued. “Will our own Morish army fight for us or for the crudes?”
“Most soldiers come from working-class backgrounds,” Martin responded. “Lest we forget, the army turned on the Malik near the end. That is how they lost the war.”
That was the crux of Hargreaves’s problem—one that had caused him many sleepless nights. Without loyal soldiers, the ruling class would crumble, and Hargreaves would find his own head placed on a spike outside the palace.
A breathless whisper from Kilworth. “Then what must be done to stop this rebellion?”
“As they say, George:Silence before the wolves approach is better than the silence afterward.” Hargreaves had always understood that to control a man, he must first learn his motivations and act accordingly. Power was an almost physical object to the men sitting beside him, hoarded like gold, stored within their marrow, passed down from father to son.
Hargreaves was different. He didn’t crave power, nor fame, nor excess. He wanted stability. Perhaps it was misguided patriotism for a country that shamed his mixed heritage, but he’d seen what war had wrought upon Algaraa. He also knew that these reasons wouldn’t sway the rest of the members of the Wake, so he tugged at their fears of the powerful becoming powerless.
And yet, Hargreaves, for all his insight, had still been blind at the most essential moment—blind to Percy’s faults, blind to his own wife’s misery, blind to the secrets of the Limitless Vessel.
A knock on the door.
The butler entered, a shiver in his voice as he announced: “Lord Calligan, House of Fray.”
Sudden tension filled the room. Both men swiveled around to look at Hargreaves. His face didn’t twitch beneath the weight of Martin’s accusing look nor Kilworth’s palpable disgust.
