“But the realm would have fewer people, which means fewer crops, less income from taxes!”
“Fewer people yes, but happier ones,” said the smaller of the two strangers. Dirk, was that his name? “Happier people might be more productive.”
The words had a seductive ring, and the Protector frowned, storing them away to chew over when he had time. “That one is worth considering, at least.” And not worth fighting a rebellion. “What else?”
Miles’s eyes brightened with hope. “Everyone is free to worship as they please, and to preach their own religion,” Miles told him.
That brought the Protector up sharply. “What is ‘religion’? A belief in a god or gods, and worship is talking to them in your mind.”
“Fantasy,” the Protector pronounced, hands on his hips, “but I see no harm in it, as long as they don’t think these ‘gods’ are real. What else?”
“One that follows from the last, for if people have the right to believe in their religions, they have the right to tell other people about them. Everyone is free to speak whatever they please that won’t injure any other person.”
“Person?” The Protector jumped on the flaw right away. “Is the government a person?”
“No,” Miles admitted.
“Meaning you would have everyone be free to criticize the government—and the Protector!”
“Only as an official,” Dirk said quickly. “They wouldn’t have the right to say anything about his private life.”
“Stuff and nonsense! How a Protector lives his life affects how well he can govern—and that applies to ministers, reeves, and magistrates, too!”
The ministers glowered and muttered to one another.
The Protector grinned, taking heart from their dislike. “No, I can’t agree to that one, young fellows! What else have you to offer me?”
“That everyone has the right to life and safety, and that the government can’t take it away from them without a trial by their fellows.”
“ ‘By their fellows’?” the Protector demanded sharply. “What nonsense is this? A trial is decided by a magistrate!”
“The magistrate would still decide the sentence, within the bounds of the law,” Miles said, “but the jury of fellow citizens would decide whether or not the accused was guilty.”
“Oh, really! And what makes a bunch of plowboys better able to judge than one learned magistrate?”
“It guarantees that no one can be sentenced by one man’s whim.”
“No, he can be sentenced by the whim of a whole mob! And don’t tell me there aren’t people unpopular enough to be condemned by their fellows even if they’re innocent—I’ve seen gangs turn against one of their own too often for that, and it’s the magistrates who have protected them! No, I can’t agree to that ‘right,’ as you call it, though I’ll be glad to tell you why in more detail some other time!”
“Might it be because the law, by limiting the magistrates, limits the Protector?” Dirk suggested.
The Protector turned red. “I have the best interests of the realm at heart, boy, and of every single person in it! If the rest of your ‘rights’ are as silly as that, you can bring all the mobs you can find, but I’ll say no to the last!”
“You haven’t heard the last,” Dirk reminded him. “Can we, tell you the next?”
“Yes,” the Protector snapped, seething.
“No one can be tortured. Not for any reason.”
“No torture? How are we to make criminals tell the truth?” the Protector shouted.
“Torture can’t do that,” Miles told him. “It can only make them tell you what you want to hear.”
“Which is that they’re guilty, when we know it already! No, I can’t agree to that one, either!” The Protector made a chopping gesture, as though cutting off the discussion. “Enough of this! I can see that most of your ‘rights’ are tools to injure the realm, maybe even tear it apart! No, I won’t agree to them, nor will any of my ministers! This conference is at an end! Send your mob home!”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Miles said, his voice even.
“Oh, really,” the Protector said in a voice as dry as hundred-year-old bones. “What will you do, then?”
“If we have to, sir, we’ll arrest you and all your men, and put our own government in this palace in your stead.”
CHAPTER 23
The Protector threw back his head and laughed; sharply and harshly. “So now we come to the truth of it! It’s not the good of the people that you want—it’s my power and my palace! But government isn’t that easy, young man!”
“I know,” Miles replied. “I’ve been an inspector-general for five years, and all those men outside have been magistrates for at least a year, some for five..”
The Protector stared,-taken aback. “An inspector-general? At your age?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stuff and nonsense, boy! Who made you an inspector-general?”
“I did, sir. I kidnapped a real inspector-general and took his place.”
The Protector stared at him, the blood draining from his face, and his voice was almost a whisper. “And those men in the square?”
“They kidnapped the real magistrates and reeves, Protector, and took their places, too.”
“Impossible! You can’t become a magistrate without years of training!”
“Months,” Miles said. “I studied very hard in private, and so did they.”
“Impossible! Who taught you?”
“The Guardian of the Lost City of Voyagend—and Gar and Dirk here.”
The Protector’s gaze swung to Gar, and his eyes were windows into death. “So. You’re the one who has spread this sedition throughout my realm.”
“I have that honor,” Gar said with a slight bow. “The seed put down roots quickly, for the soil was very fertile.”
“Meaning that the people were eager to believe what you told them—but ignorant people are always quick to believe lies! I’ll have you hanged from the castle walls, then chop your bones into pieces so that every magistrate can have one for a charm!”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Protector.”
“Oh? And why not?” the Protector growled. “I hope you’re not counting on that self-taught rabble in the square to protect you from my soldiers!”
“I did have something of the sort in mind, yes.”
“Then come gaze upon your downfall, fool!” The Protector strode over to a set of French windows and threw them wide. Instantly, the chant of “Liberty and rights!” slammed in, but he waded through it, stepping out onto the balcony and pulling a bright yellow scarf from his sleeve. He waved it, and the edges of the crowd boiled as soldiers charged out from between the buildings. The doors of the palace opened, and a horde of troopers burst out, laying about them with their pikes and halberds. A cry of fright went up from the crowd, and it pulled in from the edges. The soldiers charged in among them.
“Your men may have faked governing,” the Protector said, “but they can’t fake fighting.”
“No,” Gar agreed. “They’ll have to do the real thing.”
Even as he said it, the rebels began to push back, seizing soldiers’ halberds and wrestling them for the weapons—but other soldiers turned and began to fight their own men!
Orgoru was in the forefront of the crowd, shaking his fist and shouting louder than any, when the huge oaken door before him burst open, spewing soldiers who ran at him, halberds leveled. Orgoru cried out in dismay and anger, leaping backward into other rebels—but they were giving way, too, and he staggered against them, but stayed on his feet, remembering that they had expected such an onslaught, and how to deal with it.
“Aside!” he bellowed, and pivoted, following his own order. The halberd-blade shot past him, and he seized its shaft in both hands, pulling hard. The soldier staggered, off balance, and another rebel chopped down at the man’s hands with an open palm. The soldier yelped with pain. Orgoru twisted and spun away with the halberd in his own hands while the other rebel yanked the soldier’s helmet loose, and a third struck with a blackjack.