Chapter 1256: Politics(4)
It had happened. Of course it did.
Haldon had suspected the old bastard would pull this precise lever the very first moment the iron chime of the bells had shattered the pre-dawn quiet. Then, the instant he had been told that it was an emergency session, Haldon knew. He knew Barbut would relentlessly force a vote before the sun would set.
Barbut and his Shoreline dogs had absolutely no chance of passing such a radical decree under normal, lawful circumstances. This ambush was the only weapon a desperate minority could wield to slit a giant’s throat.
The only shield Haldon could use in return was to forestall, to spin words into thin air, and desperately play for time. He had prayed that with every passing minute, more and more members of the Iron Anchor party would race to the Call to add their weight to the tally.
And they had. As the precious minutes bled away, while Haldon raged, accused, and made an absolute theatrical ruckus, more men had indeed trickled through the bronze-banded gates. He was playing politics with every breath in his lungs, or, as his brother Kroll would undoubtedly put it, he was humiliating himself and his family name by begging for scraps from a pack of ink-stained cowards.
Yet, it had worked to a point. More Speakers, both from the wavering neutrals and the hard-line Iron Anchors, had filed into the lower tiers. The allies already seated, instantly grasping the legal game Haldon was playing, had lent their own voices to the madness, screaming objections and pounding the benches to stretch the minutes into infinity.
But that desperate stall was doomed to reach its end. In the grand tapestry of things, it was nothing short of a lone man screaming against the crushing waves of a rising winter tide.
"Honorable Watcher! Too long we have delayed this sacred duty!" Barbut screamed, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp edge of panic. The old snake was no fool; he could feel his absolute certainty dimming with every single body that entered the hall and added a vote against his faction.
Normally to win one would need a simple majority, but during an emergency session he would need three-quarters, unless more than two-thirds did not object to the session.
But the latter would mean a vote, and a vote would mean losing time and more numbers added to the oppositions. He was desperate to go ahead.
"This is an emergency session of the highest order! And we demand an immediate vote!"
The Shoreliners made their agreement known with a deafening, terrifying roar.
"A VOTE!" they shouted. Nay, they screamed it, their faces turning golden by the light of torches "A VOTE! A VOTE!"
The ancient, trembling Watcher on the high dais tried to bring the chaotic hall to order, raising his plundered metal-capped cane. But the heavy wood came undone between his frail, wrapped fingers. It slipped from his grasp, clattering helplessly down the slick stone steps, falling to the floor just like Haldon’s fragile hope of stalling for more men.
One of the Watcher’s young attendants quickly scrambled down to retrieve the cane, offering it back while stabilizing the elder as he prepared to make his declaration.
Once the howling hall finally went silent, the ancient mariner spoke. "W-We... may com-mence the vote!" He choked, a violent fit of coughing racking his frail chest as spittle flew onto the stone floor and a thin line of drool trickled unheeded down his withered chin. Ten winters ago, this man had still possessed enough steel in his spine to stand in this very chamber and defiantly add his vote against the might of Romelia. He wouldn’t survive another winter, let alone another war.
The Watcher coughed for a long, agonizing time, his chest wheezing like a torn bellows, until the same young attendant who had gathered his cane stepped forward onto the edge of the stage to read the formal decree.
"A motion to formally declare Blake an enemy of the state, to strip him of his command, and to summon him back to the Isles to face his high crimes before a tribunal shall now be put to the vote!" the attendant shouted, his voice carrying clearly through the stone vaults. "We shall henceforth begin now!"
Haldon’s heart plummeted directly into his boots as his mind automatically made a swift, ruthless mental tally of the numbers currently sitting on the benches.
Too low. It was still entirely too low.
He slowly moved his eyes toward the center of the semicircular rows, where the neutrals traditionally huddled together like sheep in a storm. It would be them. It would be those quiet, calculating merchants and minor captains who would ultimately decide how today would end.
A cold, dreadful monster coiled tightly in Haldon’s belly. Were they already bought? Would a creature as meticulously cautious as Barbut truly attempt a move this treasonous, this public, without possessing absolute, unbreakable confidence in his chances?
THUM.
Two burly assistants marched into the dead center of the stone floor, carefully settling a massive, ancient bronze urn between the marble pillars.
Haldon turned his head to look directly at the old bastard himself. Barbut was standing perfectly still, his white beard trembling slightly as a slow, triumphant smile stretched across his hideous face.
Did he already have the vote?
One of the attendants turned to face the rising tiers of benches, slowly raising his two hands high above his head to remind the assembly of the ancient, sacred mechanics of the ballot.
In his left hand, he held up a heavy, polished token shaped like a square ring. "A square ring for those who wish for the motion to pass," he barked. Then, he raised his right hand, showcasing a smooth, circular token. "A circle for those who wish to decline it."
From the sides a line of silent, bare-chested slaves filed into the amphitheater, carrying deep wicker baskets overflowing with the heavy metallic tokens. They began to fan out systematically through the rows of stone seats, their bare feet slapping against the damp rock as they handed each seated Speaker exactly one square and one circle, the instruments of a man’s honor, or a hero’s execution.
And one by one, the rulers of the waves cast their fates into the bronze.
The voting was secret and hidden.. Each Speaker stepped down to the massive urn, plunging both hands deep into its dark, metallic belly at the same time. Inside the shadows of the bronze vase, a man would let go of his chosen token, keeping his hands tightly closed as he pulled them back out, ensuring no neighboring eyes could ever glimpse his choice.
Of course, that was merely the official rule; the ideological lines of the chamber were already drawn. There wasn’t a single soul among the Shoreliners who would dare drop a circular token of negation into the urn, nor would any true Iron Anchor ever grant Barbut a square of affirmation.
The only wild cards in the deck were the neutrals. Draped in their plain, unadorned cloaks, they were entirely unorganized, rarely voting as a cohesive pack.
Yet, despite lacking a grand banner or the biggest numbers, right now, in the freezing gloom of the pre-dawn storm, those silent neutrals held the absolute, terrifying power to decide the motion’s outcome.
When it was finally Haldon’s turn to approach the center of the floor, he made sure to play dirty. He stepped toward the massive urn, his gaze locked onto Barbut’s smug face, and deliberately caught his boot against the uneven edge of the stone stage.
He slammed hard into the bronze vase, sending the heavy urn toppling sideways across the marble floor.
The chamber exploded into a chorus of outrage. The bastards of the Shoreline Faction leaped to their feet, hurling insults and calling him every foul name from a clumsy land-lubber to a desperate, ink-stained whore. Barbut’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his white beard twitching with pure fury.
But the beautiful, magnificent consequence of the blunder was that time had been violently wasted. The entire session ground to a halt as the attendants rushed forward, scrambling onto their knees to lift the heavy urn and ensure the secret tokens inside hadn’t spilled out into the light. Even the young attendants who bent down to assist Haldon to his feet threw him a subtle, lingering gaze filled with profound pity.
To Haldon’s immense satisfaction, it even seemed as though they went picking up the stray pieces of the dais far slower than they actually could have.
After that Haldon rose, dusting off his white tunic, completely unbothered by the humiliation. He would gladly swallow all the shame the island could offer if it meant keeping the executioner’s axe away from his brother and his friend’s neck. And the gamble proved its worth.
Just as the urn was placed upright again, the heavy bronze-banded gates groaned open, and two more gasping, nowsweat-soaked figures sprinted into the hall to claim their tokens. Both of them were hard-line Iron Anchors.
It wasn’t long before two more votes were cast.
Once the final tokens clattered into the bronze depths, the head attendant stepped back, raising his hands to declare the voting officially over. The hall fell into a suffocating, breathless silence as the slaves began to tip the urn, meticulously sorting the heavy metallic rings into two distinct piles upon the stone table.
Haldon watched the fingers move, his pulse hammering like a war-drum in his ears. He looked at Barbut, who was leaning forward so hard his flat chest almost touched his knees.
Finally, the count was completed. The head attendant leaned close to the ancient Watcher of the Tides, whispering the final tally directly into his deaf ear. The old mariner blinked his rheumy eyes, nodding slowly, a phantom spark of his long-lost authority flickering across his withered features.
Two burly attendants stepped forward, hooking their strong arms tightly under the old man’s armpits, physically hoisting his frail, trembling frame out of his high sealskin chair so he could face the desperate assembly.
The Watcher leaned heavily against his guards, his chest wheezing violently as he tried to summon the breath to speak. He opened his mouth, but only a dry, rattling gasp came out. He swallowed hard, his head shaking as a violent fit of coughing shook his tiny body, spittle flying from his lips. The entire hall held its breath, suspended over a precipice.
"T-The... motion..." the old man stammered, his voice cracking like dry timber, a thin line of drool trickling down into his white beard. He took one more shuddering breath, hacking loudly into the quiet of the cavern, before throwing his chin up to face all that came and that would come from its results.
’’...it’s... NAY!"
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