“I’m not sure,” said Cattanay. “It will take two years at least to organize the project, to build the scaffolding and vats in which to mix the paint. We’ll have to employ dozens of men, perhaps a hundred and more, to supply us with timber for fuel. That’ll require another year or two. Then we’ll have to create the painting and give the poison time to act. The whole process could take twenty or thirty years. Maybe more. I imagine something will go wrong every single day…problems I haven’t envisioned.”
Arthur snorted in derision and Cattanay glared at him. “They’ve run through all the unsubtle methods of killing him and failed,” he said. “You know, burning him, stabbing him, and so forth. Of course now I think about it there’s one method they haven’t essayed. They could hold up a gigantic portrait of this fellow to Griaule’s face”—he jabbed his thumb at Arthur—“and make a loud noise. I expect that might do the job.”
Arthur snarled and reached for the knife tucked into his waistband, but Rosacher put a hand on his forearm by way of restraint and said to Cattanay, “Fascinating! How did you come up with the idea?”
“Some friends and I were in a tavern and we got to talking about schemes to make money. Painting the dragon was one of the schemes. I’ve fleshed it quite a bit since that evening, but the original idea, it was a joke, really. A joke made by a group of friends who’d had too much to drink.”
The functionary, who had vanished into the council chamber while Cattanay described his scheme, returned and told Rosacher that he could go in.
Inside the chamber, an austere, spacious room with thick beams supporting the ceiling and windows overlooking the valley, offering a view of the hills enclosing its eastern reach, five men sat in high-backed chairs at a mahogany table, a ceramic pitcher and glasses set before them. With a single exception, they were fleshy and gray-haired, clad in sober suits, but the bearded man at their center, Wallace Febres-Cordero, possessed a gravitas the others did not and, though Rosacher had not met him until that moment, he divined from this brief observance that Febres-Cordero was the person he would have to sway. He took a seat in a wooden chair (the only one available) facing the table and Arthur stationed himself at his shoulder.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Rosacher said. “I’m Richard Rosacher and this is my associate, Arthur Honeyman. How can we assist you?”
“As you know,” said Febres-Cordero in a mannered baritone, “the council has no authority over you as regards the production of drugs. We have no laws that would apply, yet we may find ourselves obligated to write new law should you continue on your present course.”
“And why is that?” Rosacher asked.
“My God, man!” A thin, balding council member at the end of the table, Paltz by name, brought the flat of his hand down with a smack. “You’ve addicted half the population of Morningshade to your poison!”
“It’s closer to three-quarters, but let’s not quibble,” said Rosacher.
“We’ve had numerous complaints about your activities,” said Febres-Cordero. “Every moral authority is up in arms against you.”
“To whom are you referring?”
“The Church, for one.”
“The Church as moral authority.” Rosacher chuckled. “Now there’s a fresh idea.”
The florid face of the heavyset man sitting on Febres-Cordero’s left, Councilman Rooney, grew purplish and he said, “You come here dressed like a popinjay and attempt to…”
“I think we should give Mister Rosacher the opportunity to defend himself.” Febres-Cordero glanced along the table and then looked to Rosacher.
“Indeed, I would welcome the opportunity to speak,” said Rosacher. “Though not to defend myself, but instead to offer an alternative course of action. Have any of you gentlemen smoked mab?”
“Now you’re being impertinent,” Febres-Cordero said. “I warn you, do not try our patience.”
“I intended no impertinence. I merely wished to know whether or not you were conversant with the drug.”
“We have interviewed a number of addicts and understand its effects.
“Did any of these addicts strike you as derelicts? Were they pale and sickly as with opium addicts, or were they hale and neatly attired? Did they not earn an honorable wage?”
Councilman Savedra, a vulturous, stoop-shouldered man, older than the rest, said, “If the thrust of your argument is to be that the drug causes no physical harm to the addict, it does not touch upon the moral issues.”
“It is an element of my argument, but not its sole thrust. And it’s not the health of the individual that concerns me so much as the health of the community.” Rosacher stood and went a few paces along the table. “Should the council rule against me in this, I will happily move my business to Port Chantay or another of the coastal towns. It will be an inconvenience, nothing more. But before you banish me, I beg you to let me speak without interruption so I can present my thoughts in a coherent fashion.”
“You asked a question,” said Savedra. “I answered. You may proceed.”
“Rhetorical questions require no answer, but never mind. I thank the councilman for his comment, because it brings me round to my next point.” Rosacher moved to a window and gazed out across the valley. “Teocinte is poor. Of all the valley towns, it has—or had—the highest incidence of crime. Morningshade is its least prosperous and most dangerous quarter. The economy of the town is based upon agrarian concerns and a handful of mining operations. These provide an excellent life for a small minority, but the people of Morningshade and the various outlying communities do not fully participate in that economy. Until recently, they have subsisted chiefly by means of preying upon the wealthy and upon one another. Over the past four years, however, the incidence of crime has steadily dropped in Morningshade. When I dwelled there we only saw the constabulary when a crime had been perpetrated against the wealthy. Now, I’m told, they’re scarcely seen at all. There has been a precipitous drop in crime and this is directly attributable to use of mab. I have hundreds…”
“Balderdash!” said Rooney.
“I have hundreds of addicts in my employ,” said Rosacher, ignoring him. “And I expect to employ hundreds more during the next twelve months alone. They none of them exhibit the violent and erratic behavior generally ascribed to those addicted to other drugs. They’re responsible employees who come to work each day, perform their tasks, and go home at night to their pipe and slippers. In this case, their pipe holds a pellet of mab and the woman who brings their supper is more beautiful than the Queen of Astrikhan. The supper she brings, whether porridge or a chunk of salt pork, has a flavor comparable to the finest of viands. They sleep on soft mattresses and scented sheets, not pallets of straw. They live each in their own tiny palace beside which runs not a sewer, but a sparkling stream. Their lives are infinitely better than they were…and all because of mab.
“Unlike other addictive drugs, one does not develop a tolerance for mab. A single dose taken each night lasts until the next night. True, the effect diminishes over the following day, but it makes one’s labors less harsh. Rather than debilitating the addict, mab encourages him to take care of himself, to nurture his body. He now has reason to live, whereas with opium he hopes at best to survive and, truly, places a low value on survival. One might surmise that mab disposes the addict toward this cast of mind. What would you call a chemical compound that achieves those ends? That treats the worst symptoms of a community and causes it to function more smoothly? That makes its citizens content with their lot? Is it a drug, or is it a tonic? I say a tonic. In fact, that is how I’ve begun to market the drug in Port Chantay.”