I know all their names, their favorite drinks, too. These are our people, every rotten one of them. And, of course, there’s Daddy. The only one in the room who sits taller than me.
His hat is a brown brim with a leather braid snaking quietly around the crown. There’s a little tear right of center, noticeable, but no one knows the story. The brim edges up on one side because of how often he lifts that eyebrow in curiosity. That’s how he’s always been. A man of questions. He sat me on his lap when I was five and said the man who asks the most questions gets the most answers. Knowing is living. I stopped being so quiet after that.
“Well,” he says, and that one word gives Antonio Rowan’s story a new ending. The man falls quiet. Everyone else follows suit. Daddy sets a hand on his hat. “Shall we get started?”
“About time,” Gale Gusto replies. “I’ve business to attend to.”
Daddy smiles a trademark at her. “That you do, Gale. We all do. Welcome, friends.” That word is a stretch, but he makes it sound fitting enough. “I imagine you’re awfully curious about such a gathering. Deposed generals, oil magnates, sharpshooters. What a crew we make.”
“We’re breaking a few laws, aren’t we?” Old Trent asks.
“Two very specific ones,” Daddy answers. “But it’s not much off our noses if word doesn’t make its way to the wrong ears. I’m sure what’s spoken here won’t leave the room.”
Hearing that settles the group. Daddy’s word is the steadiest currency in the Reach. And even if they’re afraid of what he might say today, they’ve spent most of their lives waiting for someone to say it. I look around the table again and know these are the Rebellion’s children. Each of them grew up hearing stories about Gold Man Jones or the Running Rabbits. But their parents told those stories like they were tragedies. That’s what you do after losing a war. You tell your histories at the fire and you make them as quiet as you can.
Daddy’s never liked quiet. “It’s time for the Reach to rise,” he says. “Our war debt has been absolved. The population has more than recovered from the Purge. Between Gale, the Foresters, and myself, we have enough money to mobilize at least half the troops we’ll need. The state treasury is ticking its way to heaven in spite of Ashlord sanctions. We’re far more formidable than we were at the start of the first Rebellion.”
“A rebellion? To what end?” Grayson asks from my left. “You’re right. The Reach has flourished, but it has done so in peacetime. What happens if we go to war? How many of our boys will we lose to battle? I’ve read Paxon’s latest book on the matter….”
A few snorts sound. Gale Gusto rolls her eyes. Only Daddy doesn’t react to the name. Paxon is too liberal by half, but Daddy makes me read all of his books. It’s always harder to defeat an enemy you don’t know. I’ve even read the book that Grayson’s mentioned.
The Grave Illusion.
In it, Paxon examined the idea of a second Rebellion, and the inevitable war that would follow between the Reach and our current rulers: the Ashlord Empire. His analysis of the economics was surgical. There wasn’t much to argue with, honestly. His conclusion was that a second war would be bad for everyone.
“I’m just saying,” Grayson goes on. “There are consequences to war.”
Daddy nods at that. “You’re not wrong. I imagine we all lived through the consequences of war for a time. Felt like I ate nothing but potatoes one year. Our parents reached for glory and couldn’t quite get a hold of it. This time will be different. You know I’ve read Paxon’s book, too. The economics in it are staggering, aren’t they? Can’t say I like the man, but he’s got an entertaining perspective on things. There’s one word he doesn’t mention even once in the text, though, Grayson. Do you know which one it is?”
Grayson frowns, quiet now. The others are leaning forward, licking their chops. It’s a dysfunctional family that likes seeing its members laid low, but none of them know that Daddy talked with Grayson months before the meeting. Asked the man to stick his boots in the mud and brace himself for a good drag through it. He’s played his part well. Now it’s time to play mine.
“Freedom,” I say, letting them hear the deep certainty in my voice. Daddy wanted me to be visible today, memorable. “He doesn’t talk about freedom.”
Daddy nods. “Not once.”
“You can’t evaluate the cost of freedom,” Grayson complains.
“Agreed.” Daddy’s moving quick now, everything rehearsed. “Freedom is invaluable. Paxon ignored the idea because it weighs too much. We all know how much a drum of oil costs, Grayson. We can sell you a horse for the right price, too. But freedom? Too dangerous to set that on the scales. Paxon knew the men and women of the Reach would set every oil field on fire if it removed the chains the Ashlords still have around our wrists. It’s been centuries. Our ancestors came up here after the Dividian War and asked for one thing: freedom. And it’s the one thing that we still don’t have.”
Antonio Rowan raps his knuckles on the table in agreement. The Maggies are grinning like murderers, and even Gale Gusto’s wearing her little crease of a smile. Old Trask has war in his eyes, and the rest of the generals look like they can hear the sound of soldiers marching. Daddy has the room in thrall. They wanted to rise; he just needed to remind them they could.
“If you want war so you can line your pockets,” he says, “go on home. The war we start will cost us everything. The world will burn. We have to be brave enough to put the torch to it.”
Gale Gusto nods. “I know where you can get some oil.”
The room shakes with laughter, but it’s plain as day they’re still on the fence. Most of them have whispered rebellion into their cups, at their dinner tables, in their beds. Daddy knew they needed more than words. It’s easier to trust a man who stands to lose as much as you do.
“Adrian,” he says. “Stand up.”
I rise. Most of them remember the boy I was, but Daddy wants them to leave in awe of the man I’ve become. Standing is a good place to start. I’m a hand or two taller than any of them. I inherited broad shoulders, but the arms and chest are my own. I’ve spent the past few years making power into an art form. They all see it now. I am everything the Reach could be.
I am endless possibility.
“Adrian’s heading south,” he says. “He will be the first Longhand in twelve years to compete in the Races. When he wins, our people will remember. They will rise to war. My son will remind the Ashlords who we are, what we can do. Their world will tremble.”
They look from me to him, more convinced than ever. No one objects to the plan, or to the war, but there’s still a fear that they’ll leave today and have their throats slit within a week. The Ashlords have faced insurrections before, and they always put them down in fire and blood.