There was definitely something amiss—something that needed looking into.
His bike percussed over the old, inlaid brick road as he entered Court Square. He locked the frame quickly and then proceeded past the two doormen into the old courthouse.
“Lord Henneson, sir.”
“Gentlemen,” he replied.
Alastair walked through the foyer and entered the old courtroom. In the center of the room were eight heavy chairs around a large square table made of mahogany. The space was otherwise fairly Spartan. The recorder sat at a meager desk just off to the side, and a few lonely statues stood awkwardly in the corners of the room, as if their heroes of old were somehow enduring a punishment fit for a child. At the back of the room, far from the center tables, were two rows of pews for the clerical support staff.
The oversized room was used because it was thought that as Seeville expanded so to would the need for councilors and clerics. However it seemed the opposite had happened. The number of councilors stood at only five, with three seats left unused for decades because of some arcane law put in place by the original Seeville governors. They were stuck with five when they could probably have used more than ten.
Alastair was the last of the lords to arrive. He took his seat.
“Hello, Lord Henneson,” Harmon Kline said. Kline had been recently appointed by his father, and was generally responsible for agriculture and trade. He tended to be friendlier than the rest of the council. His family had at one time occasioned the Adherent temples.
“Hello all,” Alastair said. There was no response. The other lords had done away with the art of social graces a long time ago.
“What’s on the agenda today?” Kline asked.
The recorder spoke, squinting at the page in front of him. “We have the city budget for next year, the Stony Point land parcels issue, and the wheat blight.”
Bartz said, “if it pleases the council, I would like to move up two items to the top of the agenda. The Barnyard Trade School approval, and the Developer Rights Amendment.”
Kline made his discontent clear. “Wait a minute. Neither of those is scheduled until next month. Didn’t you already try to move these up last week?” Kline feigned frustration by throwing up his hands. He was beginning to show more skill as a politician, Alastair mused.
“This week is not last week,” Bartz said. “If you will indulge me, these two bills are holding up great work for Seeville. We can do so much more if we train people to be in productive trades directly linked to commercial output right from the start.”
“Why is this more important than the other agenda items? Wheat blight, for example. If we don’t address this blight, it could ruin the entire crop.”
“That’s why we have a council, to decide on what’s important. I suggest we follow protocol and have the council vote on changing the agenda,” Bartz said.
Kline shook his head. “At some point we need to fix these rules. Why have an agenda if Bartz tries to change it every time?”
Alastair watched Prakash, who was responsible for education. He was expecting to see the usual look of annoyance whenever Bartz put anything on the table, but she looked closed, tense even.
The recorder said, “There are five minutes allotted—”
“I know, I know. Five minutes for agenda changes. Fine,” Kline said. “Let’s vote on it again, then.”
The recorder said, “All in favor of moving the two items mentioned by Lord Bartz to the top of today’s agenda?”
“Nay,” said Kline.
“Aye,” said Meeker.
“Nay,” said Alastair.
“Aye,” said Bartz.
“Aye,” said Prakash.
Kline’s head swiveled in surprise toward Prakash. Prakash was sitting up straight, looking defiant. It was the first time Prakash had been in agreement with anything Bartz had proposed.
The recorder waited, noticing the surprise in the council. “Agenda changed,” he said, when no one objected.
“Excellent,” Bartz said. “Now, if you will let me say a few words about the Barnyard Trade School Bill.”
As far as Alastair was concerned, the Barnyard Trade School Bill was fairly innocuous. It would allow an additional trade school to be built on the Barnyard grounds, so that students could have more on-the-job training. As long as the students weren’t taken advantage of as strictly a source of labor, it made reasonable sense. Alastair had only wanted to see more details on the curriculum before committing, and had said as much to Bartz.
“Since last week,” Bartz said, holding out the packet that described the bill, “We have changed one very important thing. We have allowed the current teachers in existing trade schools to transfer over to the Barnyard Trade School, with a requirement for a fifteen percent salary bump as compensation for relocation.”
It was a change that played right into Prakash’s hands. Many of her supporters were educators. There hadn’t been a raise in educator salaries as far as Alastair could remember.
“All in favor say aye,” the recorder said.
“Nay,” said Kline.
“Aye,” said Meeker.
“Nay,” said Alastair.
“Aye,” said Bartz.
“Aye,” said Prakash.
It was clear there had been some kind of side-deal between Prakash and Bartz, while Kline and Alastair had been blindsided. Although Alastair wasn’t terribly moved, Kline looked livid.
“Bill passed,” the recorder said.
It took Alastair only a brief moment more to realize Bartz’ motivations for such a generous payout to the educators. It wasn’t about the educators. It wasn’t about getting the Barnyard Trade School Bill passed at all. It was about the next bill.
“Next up, the Developer Rights Amendment,” the recorder said.
Prakash cared nothing about the Developer Rights Amendment, but had previously agreed to vote against it simply because Bartz proposed it. That would change now. Meeker was always with Bartz, so the three of them would give him the majority to approve the amendment.
The trade school bill was one thing, but the Developer Rights Amendment was something else entirely. If passed, it would basically eliminate the lords subcommittee approval on large Seeville construction projects. Bartz would have free reign to build new factories and service stations without oversight and without the lords’ ability to enforce the few Credo-based laws they had. Which meant he would have free reign to complete whatever he was building at the observatory and stadium without the council so much as knowing what they were.
As an Adherent, Alastair found the notion of unilateral control of anything to do with progress to be unwise. Now, when considering what he’d heard from Chester, it was downright alarming.
“I don’t think this bill needs any more introduction,” Bartz said. “In fact it’s unchanged from my submission two weeks ago. I suggest we go right to vote.”
Kline looked at Alastair with concern. Alastair shook his head. There was nothing they could do. They had been outmaneuvered by Bartz.
There was some noise at the door, distracting the recorder. The doorman came in, along with Deputy Attorney Henry Klipton. The Deputy’s clean-cut wool jacket and tight-fitting tie contrasted with a comb-over that had been dislodged. It was projecting straight into the air. He was trailed by a shorter, older-looking woman with close-cropped, gray hair. She walked slowly, supporting her weight with the help of a cane.
She entered the enclosure to the meeting area while Klipton stood his ground.