“Mount up,” he said, turning about and striding towards Lutharon. “We got a lotta distance to cover.”
“To where?” asked Braddon.
“Mount what?” asked Loriabeth.
“Stockcombe, where else?” Clay climbed onto Lutharon’s back, quickly followed by Kriz, who seemed to have lost her reluctance during the flight from the mountains. He grinned at Loriabeth and pointed at one of the drakes perched at the cliff edge. “And what else?”
III
THE RED TIDES
From the Journal of Miss Lewella Tythencroft—Sanorah, 32nd Vorellum, 1600 (Company Year 211)
That the sad, ugly but mercifully brief affair that sparked the revolution has since earned the name “The Battle of the Barricade” says much for the scale of the fighting that followed. There had been some rioting following the mob assault on the banks, but this died down when it became apparent that the Protectorate was prepared to use lethal force to guard its principal installations. However, for the most part the Ironship military stayed in barracks, probably due to the sudden spike in desertions which robbed it of more than half its strength within a week. Sporadic gun-battles erupted between the constabulary and more radical anti-corporate elements, but the latter lacked sufficient numbers to be more than a nuisance. By far the most important thing to happen in the aftermath of what has, to my mortification, also occasionally been dubbed “Free Woman Tythencroft’s defiant stand” was the walk-out and subsequent strike by the vast majority of corporate employees in Sanorah.
Within two days every company office and manufactory in the city and outlying districts lay silent and empty, the strikers forming delegations which duly turned up at the offices of the Gazettein search of acknowledgment and guidance. My days soon became an often-trying mix of meetings, speeches, correspondence and yet more meetings. Those queueing up outside my door were a varied lot indeed, ranging from soldiers and sailors representing what has become known as “The Free Protectorate,” to civic and company bureaucrats who suddenly find themselves bereft of higher authority.
Rumours began to circulate following the brief spate of strife after the Battle of the Barricade that the interim Board had effectively ceased functioning, its principal members either fled to country estates or taken to secluding themselves in their town houses. It was a company of infantry from the Free Protectorate who confirmed this to be truth rather than rumour, barging into the Sanorah Ironship headquarters to find the upper floors largely empty. The senior management of the largest corporate entity in the world had, it appears, simply given up and gone home.
It was at this juncture that I realised my ad hoc approach to organisation was no longer practical and I began appointing deputies, assuring my fellow Voters that all such appointments would be confirmed by electoral sanction when the situation became less fraught. I have to admit to a palpable sense of the bizarre as I went about the business of building what is essentially a dictatorship, some might even call it a dynasty given that, lacking another qualified and trustworthy figure to fill the role, I was obliged to appoint my father to the position of City Treasurer.
The most pressing issue proved to be the most complex, despite its simple urgency: The city needed to be fed. The large corporate-owned farms surrounding Sanorah had stopped supplying food to the markets during the riots, and continued to withhold produce in the aftermath. Swiftly deposing their managers when wages stopped being paid, the farm labourers declared themselves a confederation of independents. They subsequently agreed to resume supplying food-stuffs only on condition that all outstanding debts would be paid, along with assurances that future debts would be honoured. It required several hours of persuasion to calm the more hot-headed elements of my nascent administration, who argued the Free Protectorate should be sent to seize the farms.
“Farms with dead labourers and ruined buildings won’t grow anything,” I pointed out, deciding on a more conciliatory approach. The main obstacle was the fact that, at the dawn of a new age in which corporate scrip had become worthless, how was it possible to pay anyone for anything? Fortunately, our new treasurer came up with a novel solution in the form of Liquidation Notes. These were essentially promissory notes issued by the Free Sanorah Republic guaranteeing the bearer an allotted share of assets resulting from the impending liquidation of the Ironship Syndicate and others. Whilst Ironship no longer possessed any financial wealth its warehouses and manufactories still held considerable stocks of goods of all description. Wealth, it transpires, is what those in authority deem it to be.
“But it’s just paper,” I protested when my father first proposed the measure. The prototype note he had given me consisted of a rectangle bearing a date stamp and two signatures, mine appearing above his.
“Of course it is, Lewella,” he told me in mild irritation. “That’s all money has ever been.”
Despite my misgivings the Liquidation Notes gained a surprisingly rapid level of acceptance amongst the populace, including the newly independent farmers, who soon resumed food shipments. I ascribed some of this to the prevailing mood of uncertainty; the appearance of something, however nebulous, that indicated a return to normalcy proving highly welcome.
In addition to local concerns there was also the continual distraction of events elsewhere. The Voters Rights Alliance has long made use of sympathetic Blood-blessed and they proved invaluable in keeping us up to date with developments from far and wide, the most important from my perspective being the communications from the Arradsian port of Stockcombe, not least because the event brought news I had begun to suspect I might never hear.
“Captain Corrick Hilemore,” the young Blood-blessed told me during one of our semi-regular meetings. He looked tired, having responsibility for maintaining communications with numerous locations despite a rapidly dwindling supply of product. “He says he knows you. I think they’re hoping you’ll tell them he’s lying so they can seize his ship.”
“I do indeed know him,” I replied, finding a genuine smile on my lips for the first time in many days. “And any attempt to seize his ship will be highly ill-advised.”
34th Vorellum
I have just concluded a highly taxing meeting with Mrs. Torcreek. Whilst I value this woman’s insights greatly, of late her brusque manners and increasingly unreasonable demands have been a distraction I could well do without.
I write these next words some minutes after penning the above paragraph, having partaken of a calming measure of tea. Mrs. Torcreek is more than just my friend, she is in many ways as crucial to the initial success of this project as I am. Without her, and the support of the Carvenport refugees, the barricade may well have fallen and I would be writing this journal in the seclusion of a Protectorate prison cell. So I will continue to attest my deep regard and respect for Mrs. Torcreek and hope our friendship continues. However, the simple matter remains that I cannot give her what she wants.