Page 42 of The King's Man 1

“Become his apprentice?”

“And hold not just three marks of proficiency, butsix.”

“You’d have to be invited into the royal city as a vitalian.” His tone sounds... incredulous. “And only the top scholar is offered a position in the palace.”

I sigh, but my hand is balling my cloak. “Dreams are free.”

“No. Dreams are motives, starting points for action.”

His words strike hard. This truth—this is why I came to Thinking Hall. Big ideas alone won’t change my world; I have to turn motive into action.

Below, the distinguished Florentius raises his hands, commanding the crowd’s attention.

He says two words, and on the high of discovering what I really want, I half throw myself over the balustrade to pay him more attention. “The hearth.”

Scholars start heckling—“commonplace”and“thought he’d say something profound.”

“The commonplace can be profound,” I say; Quin hums beside me.

Florentius continues over the din, “What’s more joyous than a full belly? The hearth provides a place to cook. What’s more joyous than warmth on a cold day? The hearth provides heat. What’s more joyous than the company of good friends? The hearth provides a source of comfort for people to bond around. What’s more joyous than protecting loved ones? The hearth’s tools can be weapons at hand. And what’s more joyous than good health? The hearth burns waste and potential disease. The hearth is life.”

I grab Quin’s sleeve, unable to take my eyes off the scholar. “You’ve got a good sense of people. He’s marvellous.”

I glance at Quin, who is staring at my hand on the fine fabric of his robe. I loosen my grip and pat the material smooth. “Nice this. Looks great on you.”

He raises a brow and returns his gaze to the stage below. “They’re moving on to the second topic.”

“That’s fast.”

“It’s a chance for scholars to align themselves politically. Find their crowd.”

The stage clears, and a second scroll drops: The merits of raising taxes.

This time, two scholars take the stage and engross the hall with a heated political debate that mostly focuses on funding the army.

Quin side-eyes me as I yawn. I cover my mouth and sneak closer. “You see where I stand. Most people can barely afford their hearths.”

“So dismissive. Consider that taxes offer relief in dire times. During war, they fund our protection; during drought, they purchase food from across borders; during plagues, they supply medicinal herbs and healers. If we leave each subject to their own devices, who will be hurt the most? Those that love their hearths.”

“Will that tax revenue really go to those who need it? Why doesn’t it go there now? There may be no war, drought or plague, but people need relief.”

“Pay attention,” Quin gestures to the solemn scholar on stage. “He advocates that the nobility pay more, corresponding to their wealth.”

“His words won’t be heard by those who need to hear them.”

“We’ll see.”

“I bet the proposed increase is a placation. Likely the rich would contribute more if each donated one pair of their undergarments.”

“Excuse me?”

I poke a finger at his waist, and hover it there. “Come on, I know there’s gold thread in there.”

His brow arches, his dark eyes shimmering dangerously, and I drop my teasing fingers.

Cheeks flushed, I quickly apologise.

“I’d believe you more if you stopped grinning.”

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