The doors to the throne room opened and a curling roil of power washed over the crowd. Marc dropped my hand like he’d been burned, turning with everyone else to watch Tristan stroll up the main aisle to take a place at the rear of the line of petitioners.
Immediately they began to fall over themselves to get out of his way, mutters of “Please go ahead, Your Highness,” reaching my ears even from a distance, and Tristan’s affable declarations of “You are too kind” loud enough to disturb whatever the King was saying to the current petitioner. The commoner in question turned round to find himself face to face with the crown prince, squeaked, “It’s really not important, Your Majesty,” then all but bolted to the rear of the crowd.
“Tristan.” The King shifted on the throne, his mouth drawing into a thin line.
“Father.” Tristan bowed low. “Your Majesty, that is. I suppose, given the circumstances, we ought to be formal.”
“Get on with it.”
Seemingly nonplussed by the King’s sour tone, Tristan nodded. “Of course. Your time is a valuable commodity, Father. Coincidentally, it is valuable commodities which I’d like to discuss. Namely, I wish to petition the crown – you, that is – that the practice of sending miners to the labyrinth for missed quotas be replaced with a punishment that is somewhat less… fatal.”
The effect of his words rippled through the crowd like a tide, exclamations of surprise quickly shifting to whispered conversation as aristocrats and commoners alike fell into groups of their peers, speculating over Tristan’s motivations for such an enormous request. I glanced up at Marc to see his reaction, but he only watched his cousin intently.
“It’s a practice that has long proven an effective means of maintaining production,” the King said. “I see no–”
“Just because it’s an old practice doesn’t make it any less ill-considered,” Tristan interrupted, causing the collective to stir uneasily, everyone wisely concerned about being caught in the crossfire between the two powers. “It’s bad economics.”
“By all means,” the King replied. “Please enlighten me.”
“I will!” Tristan smiled and extracted a piece of parchment from the inner pocket of his coat. “In the last year, one hundred eighty-three miners have been sentenced to the labyrinth for missed quotas. That’s one hundred eighty-three miners who could’ve been punished in some other form – longer hours or perhaps a whipping or lost finger – then continued to work. Instead, they were killed, leaving their gangs short of members until the Guild arranged for the purchase of replacements.”
“The cost of replacing them is negligible.”
“True!” Tristan looked up from his paper. “Most are only of middling power, and the job requires little intelligence or training, meaning the Guild can purchase the half-bloods they need at marginal expense. However, the number that is compelling is the opportunity cost of losing those miners. Imagine, for a moment, that we kept them alive and working, while maintaining the current rate of additions to the labor force.”
“They do need to be fed.”
Tristan waved a dismissive hand. “Not much, and I’m sure we could find places to cut that particular expense.” He glanced at the page. “In the past year, the gross weight of bullion pulled from the ground was approximately–”
The numbers he rattled off made even my jaw drop. The effect on the masses was far greater. As was the number Tristan announced could be earned if his changes were put into effect.
“Even if one factors in a slight reduction in production due to reduced incentive to meet quota, it still makes good economic sense.”
“Interesting,” the King said, and I held my breath along with everyone else as he silently deliberated.
“Your Majesty, if I might interject.” My father’s voice pierced the silence. “There are additional consequences to His Highness’s proposal that he might not have considered.”
Tristan’s expression soured, but the King waggled his fingers at my father to continue.
“The Miners’ Guild is not the only group who uses the labyrinth to dispose of undesirable property,” my father said. “Only the most consistent user of the resource. Yet if you were to eliminate the practice for them, how long until those with more… liberal sympathies eliminated the avenue for the other groups.”
“I did not realize good economics were the sole domain of the liberal-minded,” Tristan snapped. “The same principles apply for the other guilds, as they do for private owners. Sell your undesirables if you no longer wish to retain them.”
My father grimaced. “Good in theory, Your Highness. But how long until the markets are flooded with inferior half-bloods with poor skills and work ethic. Who will buy them? The answer is either the crown–” he gestured at the King “–or the guilds and private owners will be forced to keep them and shoulder the burden of feeding and clothing them for the rest of their lives. Worse yet, it will create legions of malcontents of the belief that they can escape the labor that is their due through poor performance.”
“What say you, Tristan?” the King asked. “His Grace makes a compelling argument. As usual.”
There was no mistaking that Tristan wanted to argue. The muscles of his jaw flexed and the press of power he was exuding made more than a few trolls step back. I glanced at Marc out of the corner of my eye to see how he reacted, but he showed no sign of concern, his shoulders relaxed.
“Tristan?”
The crown prince scowled, then gave the slightest shake of his head. “The numbers speak for themselves, but it appears His Grace has given the social and political ramifications a great deal of thought and consideration, and I find myself in no position to argue his points.”
In no position, but not unable. Pursing my lips, I picked through Tristan’s words, seeing the way he manipulated the truth. But to what end? There was something off about this exchange. Something… scripted.
“The law stands.” The King stood up, through with audiences for the day, and strode between Tristan and the Duke without acknowledging either.
The crowd dispersed, but it was flush with heated conversation over what had been said. Marc offered me his arm, leading me over to where Tristan stood with Ana?s, my father having already left the throne room.
“Stones and sky, but your father drives me to the brink,” Tristan said loudly, crossing his arms. “Must he argue with everything I say?”
Except my father almost never came to these audiences – they were for commoners and the lower levels of the nobility. The only reason he was here was because my sister had given him reason to be.
“He argues with everyone,” Ana?s replied. “Let’s go. I’m hungry and I fancy a float on the lake.”
Marc and I followed them out, exiting the palace gates just as a gust of wind blasted through the city, carrying with it countless sheets of paper. Half-bloods and full-bloods alike snatched them from the air or picked them up off the ground, and without thinking, I did the same.
* * *