Page 70 of Angel in Absentia
Ryson gestured to her emphatically. “Typically, when I am done with kingdoms, they don’t need to be run, and so much of what you do is based around what limited time you have. My people are timeless and bound by contract, not some agreed-upon resolve to survive as many years as possible. And you all claim not to kill, but you kill animals, and some people. Not all people and not all animals, only some animals, and I can hardly tell what the difference is. Your debates about what people to kill require such extensive oversight. Honestly, the mailing system and the systems of justice have infinite layers of complexity and tradition, and with so many dead, I still don’t see why we can’t just ignore them for the time being.”
Clea tried with significant effort to decode the conversation happening only feet from her. Iris and Ryson talking not just in a civil way, but trying to deliberate the operations and traditions of her city? Collaborating?
“You insist on preserving the city. I’m trying to explain how,” Iris replied.
“I understand systems that make sense. I could preserve the city, but the complexity of the customs here is a nightmare.” He rubbed his temple.
Clea tried to grapple with the revelation of his frustrations. None of it made sense. It couldn’t be real, and even Iris was falling so easily for this ruse that he was trying to preserve and rebuild things? Her confusion and discomfort morphed into a protective anger.
“You’re still thinking about that debacle with the markets?” Iris asked.
He replied somewhat heatedly, “Why is there a decree to only have meat markets open in the early morning and why do leather peddlers get so concerned about it? Their city is under siege and they are squabbling over this?”
Clea couldn’t listen to any more.
“Because they don’t want to worry about their safety. They just want to live their lives,” Clea said from the door.
Iris and Ryson turned toward her.
“They are testing you, trying to see what tolerance you have for preserving their way of life. If you’re planning on killing or using them, you’ll show no interest. It’s an investment. If you make that investment, they’ll start to believe the peace you’re offering has some measure of truth to it.”
“Ah, Princess,” he said delightedly, not even blinking that she was free of her chains. Iris and Clea exchanged glances.
Iris bit her lip as if she was prepared to lift her hands and say, “He made me do it.”
“This is perfect.” Ryson sat on the desk, licking a finger and using it to move through a book. “Princess, someone asked me about irrigating crops on the south end of the wall, which apparently is an urgent concern.” He looked at her expectantly.
She remained silent, glaring at him.
“Is it urgent?” he asked. “Because I was planning on just letting them die. Do your people really need crops?” She knew the question was a joke.
Clea walked into the room with her arms folded resolutely over her chest. “You need to formalize the decree, likely sitting on the desk behind you somewhere, that the farmer who owns that land be released from prison seasonally. You must then send it by royal mail carrier to the last address on that plaque against the side of the desk. It needs a gold seal.”
He gestured with a metallic finger to one of the Insednians standing by, who walked calmly from the room as Iris hurriedly dug up the piece of paper and a pen. He signed it, and she folded up the parchment, handing it to a disheveled and terrified mail carrier who appeared at the door minutes later with an Insednian holding him passively by the cuff of his shirt. The mail carrier ran off a moment later.
“Perfect,” he said, marking something off in the book.
This odd scenario continued on for several more minutes until Ryson was called out of the room by another Insednian and Clea could finally direct her attention to Iris. “What are you doing?” she said in a loud hiss.
Iris scurried up to her apologetically. “Clea, I’m sorry, but he’s been perfectly amicable. He said he’d let Dae out of prison if I just helped him a bit, and he hasn’t hurt anyone.” She glanced back at the door. “Honestly, he seems to be giving this an honest effort, and you just witnessed it.” She looked at Clea and grimaced. “This is not his area of expertise.”
“Because he destroys kingdoms!” she shouted in a whisper. “He is just waiting to lull us into a sense of comfort and then he will destroy us! It’s a trap. He traps people!”
Iris wrung her hands and looked around and then back to Clea before she settled down and at last said, “I think… I don’t think that’s true. Clea, the argument you both had. You didn’t deny any of what he said. And it’s all true?”
Clea’s silence answered Iris’s question.
“He’s different now,” Clea bit out.
“How?”
“Iris, he’s the Warlord of Shambelin!”
“And I’ve become convinced that we know very little about any of it,” Iris insisted. Clea calmed down, watching her and knowing that the proclamation came from a place of having dug through all of the books a thousand times.
“If everything you have both been through did happen, and it’s all true, who is to say he isn’t being honest about it all? Otherwise, what incentive does he really have to keep any of us alive? If they wanted us as slaves, they could have us as slaves. Ruedom abandoned us. We were limping along after being attacked by the Ashana.”
“He’s dangerous,” Clea whispered.
