In all kingdoms, nations, realms and times, there has been a not-quite servile group of men who pretend to be smarter than they truly are. They tend to be affluent, more from the happenstance of their birth than from their own merit. AS such, they desperately grab hold of true geniuses and haul them around like exotic pets. They hold private parties where they discuss politics and art more high mindedly than they’re truly capable of. The genius in question–be they a writer, artist, scientist of philosopher–must amuse these fellows because it is through their patronage they are prevented from needing a job of their own. Thus, they make themselves into a clown.

The pretenders of Rackvidd had but one such clown, a sickly man of former great mind. To this day, many people think rather highly of this writer, Voltez, but I find that his presence has more to do with his influences than his actual writings. He himself was a mere refinement of the dialectics. This is not the place to debate the great schisms of society however, for by this year Voltez no longer had his mind.

After many years of calling upon his favored prostitute, of lavishing her with gifts and money and the off cast treasures of his noble friends, her infidelity to him–if such a compact could be said to exist at all–led to her contracting the illness and passing it onto him. The infection reached his brain and devoured his wisdom year by year until he was the equivalent of a three year old babe. He had a maid who ushered him about, wiped his chin, fed him food, and struggled to keep his incoherent outbursts under control. Of course, the analogy is not quite correct. He could still recite some of his works from perfect, crystal memory. As such, his patrons kept him around somewhat like a performing monkey.

I find such behavior to be insulting and degrading, so henceforth I will be exercising my authorial power to purge him from the scene. I have explained the historical condition, but I will not tarnish his name by immortalizing his prolonged death.

Lord Raymi, after giving but a few hours to restore himself, took Lucius to the private affair aforementioned. A chorus of strings had begun to pluck and thrum but no singer commanded attention. They did not even play to a crescendo of any sort, but took turns filling the air with pleasant noise so the men of the city could speak. They were in gold-threaded tunics and trim military-styled jackets. They kept their socks tight and their pants wide. There are certainly locales where such a look would be stylish, but overwhelmingly these men were too old for such things. They pretended at the fashion and thought themselves avant garde as they walked about the pavilion with mugs of wine; mere goblets would not be enough of course.

And so, after learning nothing at all of the military duty for which Lucius would be assigned, he found himself entertaining two so-called scholars(1) who thought they had come upon something scientifically revolutionary by the rejection of ‘flogistan’.

“Can you believe it?” one of the codgers was saying. “For centuries people believed that fire was of a material escaping to the air but it isn’t at all! The air is sucked into the burned substrate.”

“Except for the ash,” Lucius said. The wine had long ago sapped his ability to pretend to be interested.

“Well, yes. Of course. Except for the ash. But if you trap the ash and weigh it once more, the weight has in fact increased! What’s more, if you burn in a sealed environment, the weight changes not at all.”

“I once heard of a troll in the north,” Lucius said. “The Skalds trapped it in a cave with no exit, but were too fearful to go in and face it themselves. They were poor men, presumably. So what they did was toss in a barrel of oil and set it ablaze. After it guttered out, they found the troll dead but not burned. The fire sucked the air of its life.”

THe other man screwed up his face and scratched his chin before asking, “If they were poor how did they afford a barrel of oil?”

For a moment, Lucius was stunned. “I don’t know. Perhaps they weren’t and were merely cowards?”

“Very curious. I should try to replicate this,” the old man said. “Perhaps with a mouse? It is known that they will suffocate if jarred up, but perhaps a fire will do it quicker?”

“I suspect,” the younger of the two men said, “that the temples already know the answer. The nature of fire is a very fundamental part of our reality, don’t you agree? Of which they profess to study. And if they haven’t discovered this then they are useless.”

The older and more reticent speaker shook his head. “It would explain why they share so little; they know nothing themselves.”

The first expression to truly cross my pupil’s face in some time pulled his brow together. “Even the lowest chemist of the temples knows at least as much as you do. They are responsible for more of our industry than you would imagine.”

“Bah, you mean knowledge is responsible for our industry! Knowledge which they hoard to keep their status. They pretend to be caretakers of it, but they just do as the angels command and they are imminently fallible.”

“The angels are only one step removed from human,” Lucius quoted, straight from the texts.

“The angels are a bunch of misandrists,” the younger fool said.

Lucius shook his head and emptied his mug. “I wasn’t expecting to hear blasphemy.”

The older one scoffed. “It’s only blasphemy because it’s true. It gets under their glowing skin. You know, the central kingdoms don’t treat men the way we Vassish do.”

“The central kingdoms think it’s healthy to raise a child with only two parents. There’s a reason you all know what I mean when I talk about bedding a church girl with no father. A proper Vassish estate is much better.”

The older man sipped his wine and frowned. “Why don’t you tell us what you think of inheritance then? You’re the eldest son of your family and you keep proving how competent you are, but the family estates will go to your sister and whoever marries her.”

“And I will take the land of my wife. What of it?”

“In Skaldheim, farm land is passed from father to son, as they are the ones who work it most. Second sons reclaim land from the winter and make it their own. They mix their labor with it to later pass on to their children. But here, every estate and business is tossed from hand to hand by the whims of women. It’s inefficient and wasteful is what it is. Neither sex should have such an advantage over the other. The gods split the roles of parentage between us but that should have nothing to do with business!”

Lucius said, “Men can buy the legal ownership of businesses from one another. The only thing tied up like you’re talking about are the noble estates. Frankly, I don’t believe you men have any business debating how nobles should exchange their property amongst themselves.”

The older one frowned, making the wrinkles of his face resemble a bulldog. “Why shouldn’t we? Part of the problem is that we are forbidden from marrying into the blue bloods, no matter how successful we are.”

Lucius was too drunk to not laugh. Clearly they had never imagined the scheme he and I had implemented. “Gentlemen, if only you realized how ignorant you just exposed yourselves to be.”

The younger one puffed up and prickled, glaring down his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lucius waved his mug for a refill and went on to explain to them. “Sure, if you compare yourself to the Ducal families or the royal family you will never compare, but several low borns are far more powerful and influential than someone like Lord Raymi. The people who most impact our kingdom have the most unassuming of roles. Port masters. Tax collectors. Judges. I propose that the largest influence on our prosperity has been driven by the land dispute judiciary. Most people don’t even know there are specifically appointed men–and women–who are experts in historical law and ownership rights. Some of them get bribed too, and they bring in their own judgment at times. Their influence on the ownership of land drives the effectiveness or not of our farmers and from food comes all surplus. There’s nothing noble about the role at all.”

“My good sir,” the bulldog man said as Lucius’ cup was filled. “I think you have completely disregarded the rights of men, of enterprise and franchise. Are we supposed to content ourselves with petty powers? The kind of private tyranny a robber baron might aspire to? I think it is you who is ignorant. Why, you’ve probably never even heard of Jacque Mordare, let alone read his treatises.”

“Jacque Mordare? You mean that drunk from Jarnmark?”

“All men drink,” the younger sycophant said.

“What does he have to do with anything?” Lucius asked, recalling the fellow that had deluded him about savage nature so many years ago.

The bulldog man chortled. “Shows what you know, m’lord. He is the… was the genius behind teh social contract. He finally put to words what everyone had implicitly understood. It is thanks to him that we can explain the needs for the rights of man to be respected! By the very standards of nobility, the freedoms of the lowborn must be upheld. Jacque proved this beyond a shadow of a doubt. He was a genius.”

“He was an idiot trying to impress Lady Ashe so he could sleep with her.”

The younger sycophant’s face flushed. “Do not repeat those lies! You disgrace us all by giving credence to that slander.”

“Why do you think Lady AShe never married? Jacque got himself killed as I hear it.”

Raymi thrust his hand into the fray and clapped it upon Lucius’ shoulder. “And here is the hero of the hour,” he declared, dragging a small cadre of listeners into the conversation with him.

A pious imp of a man stepped forward, barely any taller than a goblin and with spectacles upon his dried out face. “My good sir–gentlemen, I apologize to interrupt–your work my boy, no, I’m sorry, my lord is of the utmost importance.”

The prompting of Lucius’ upraised brow caused Lord Raymi to say, “This is Father Ambress. An inquisitor of the Church of Helios.”

The little man laughed. “Please, you make it sound so severe, Lord Raymi. My job is to inquire. I investigate things. My time with knife and brand is long past. Just look at me now. I have been traveling to bring our beloved angel back to us and the most I can do is plead with a child no more than a third my age to do the work for me!”

Lucius adjusted his stance, turning his shoulder to the earlier men. They backed off, dragging the incompetent Voltez with them. “Perhaps, Father Ambress, it is time for me to learn what my job will be? That forced my recall.”

“Of course,” the inquisitor said. “You are needed to trek down through the wastelands along the path of Jean de Jeamaeux and bring her back before war conflagrates the whole of the central kingdom like Prince Gabriel wants it to. When I heard about your duel against the prince I just knew that you were the man for the job. And to think you were also the hero of Rackvidd! Please, my lord, save our angel.”

Voltez was with them, but as mentioned I omit his presence.