The Gamer Chapter 1274 – Gala Date 5 – Socialites (Patreon)

They came to sit around a large table, which servants had hastily brought outside. The chairs were soft and cushioned, the canopy above rustled in artificial winds that were summoned only for that effect. John had one hand on Nightingale’s thigh and was holding her drink with the other. The harpy sucked on the straw. Indecent thoughts about how much better her lips look when they were wrapped around something thicker surfaced. His hands glided a little higher.

Lavender eyes darted to him, amusement and reprimand flickering within. John shrugged, trying to say, ‘Can’t fault a man for wanting,’ and put his hand back in a more acceptable place. She released the straw and John returned the wine to the table.

“All are present,” Nightingale said and looked around the table. The notable attendees were John, Nightingale, Suel, and Bertrand. Everyone else was a noble and doubtlessly of some import, but not to John’s life or the current situation. To the Gamer, they were just faces of their respective factions. Lydia was still occupied elsewhere. “I posited that our shared values should triumph over the devil of the details. This turned into a dialogue on tradition. John, since you joined us there, why do you not continue for us?”

“I think it’s fundamentally right to put traditions to the test,” John responded, having already thought this topic through many times. “Nothing should ever be above questioning. Call it my meritocratic bias, but traditions should not need to be promoted. If they are strong and true, they will survive on their own.” That caused nods among the reformists of the crowd. “However,” John added, knowing he would lose the support of partisans on both sides, “to take a sledgehammer to traditions is also inadvisable. We question tradition because they are valuable to us, like we question whether our house requires new isolation or windows. You do not tear down the walls before you know what they carry.”

“Splendidly put,” Suel responded from across the table, “and also naïve, if I may put it so brazenly.” He paused, giving Nightingale a chance to object – which she never took. “You ask that traditions should stand on their own, should be neither erected nor destroyed, but to rise and raze culture is part of conquest. Be it foreign or domestic. A land is taken over by another tribe, a state by another ideology, and the traditions change according to the whims of the law.”

“Are you saying that culture is downstream from law?”

“Am I saying that?” Suel asked, not to be coy but to signal that he was thinking. “I suppose I am. A tradition of property rights can not stem from a society that has not enshrined them.”

“I disagree intensely,” the Gamer said, shaking his head, “because there is the state of nature. Some things are natural to humans – and other Abyssal species, pardon my mundane habits.“ He smiled towards Nightingale, who chuckled. “In any case, the concept of ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ is older than society. Societies that try to not have it attempt to destroy a tradition born of natural impulses. In the absence of a guiding hand, those traditions would resurface on their own. An attempt to keep them down must be, ultimately, tyrannical.”

“Hmmm,” Suel hummed, tapping his chin. “Very well, I concede the point.”

There was something like an impressive mumble around the table. Nobles had too much self-control, after years of intrigue, to let slip the entirety of their thoughts on anything. Their mumbles were, therefore, nothing verbal. Instead, they manifested themselves in the quiet rustling of clothes, or a short stop in the fidgeting with an empty wine glass.

“There is no conceding, Lord of Pontis,” Nightingale assured. “There are no losers here, only people that gain information. Let us return to the heart of the conversation. What is the purpose of a noble, Lord Bertrand?”

“To govern his lesser,” he answered immediately.

‘And there’s a point in favour of humiliating him,’ John thought.

“…Lord Lambert?” Nightingale asked for the opinion of a more seasoned member of the traditionalists.

“The authority of a noble is rooted in his two loyalties. That to his wards, his subjects, and their happy life, and that to his liege, his ruler, and the stability of his- her reign,” he responded. “I do apologize, I’ve served under her majesty’s grandfather for a long time.”

“Hear, hear,” one of the reformists commented. “If we are to serve people and country, why are you undermining her attempts to reform with the people in mind?”

“Duke Joachim, that is a loaded question,” Nightingale interjected, “and beyond the focus of this conversation. We attempt to find what is shared and what can, therefore, be solved with mutual agreement.”

“With all due respect, Lady Nightingale, the discussion that must be had is not of what to achieve but how to achieve it.”

“If that is what you desire to debate, you must find another table,” the goddess of the night responded. The young Duke grabbed his glass and stared. An expert veneer that still failed to hide how upset he was from people who knew what to look for. “Do I have your word that you will not engage in inflammatory rhetoric?”

“You have my word that I will challenge everything that-“

All sounds that came from the young noble were suddenly silenced, while his form was swallowed by a thick veil of darkness. John saw Nightingale’s lips move. A deeply displeased look was on the harpy’s face and it only grew more displeased as she and only she caught whatever was being said within the isolation of her magic. The entire table vibrated when invisible chains rattled in the night around them. On Nightingale’s face was a lesser variant of the same cold anger that surfaced whenever the gods of Scandinavia were brought up.

John felt his own annoyance rise. He knew that was a deeply illogical emotion, but just knowing that there was something that enraged a woman he deemed as his, even if that was not truly official yet, angered him by proxy. What angered him garnered the attention of a certain security wolf.

Rex Magnar flew into the courtyard and stopped moments before it could cut a hole into the perfectly tended lawn. The hand of Metra, who had stepped through a portal created by the same weapon, had stopped it. Throwing it back into the wilderness, the suit-wearing wolf girl approached the table with only her bare hands.

‘You didn’t need to come here,’ John told her.

‘Just a security measure,’ she assured him, while nodding towards Nightingale. The darkness drifted apart. Strands of black wove back into the tapestry of the greater night, until the proper equilibrium of light levels was restored. Now standing, the Duke glanced around, and was clearly ready to continue whatever tirade he had been on, when Metra’s hand fell on his shoulder. “You should be thankful for some of the modern traditions,” she warned jokingly, a wide grin showing her canines. “In my day and age, a fuzz at court was grounds for execution. That was the natural way to deal with people who don’t know when to shut up.”

John sighed. “Metra, come on, we’re guests here.”

“Just saying how it is, Master.” The blonde’s green eyes were hard, as she stared down the taller man. “That’s what we did,” she said with the joy of a bloodhound in her voice. Then she let go of his shoulder.

“A good night, lords, ladies, Mister President.” He spat out that last part.

‘I guess there’s people of all factions that hate me,’ the Gamer thought and watched the Duke leave. At the same time, Lydia approached. She exchanged a short nicety with the man who was, technically, part of her camp. “Really though, don’t threaten anyone here,” the Gamer told his security haremette.

“She has my approval,” Nightingale announced. That created actual rumbles around the table. Behind a raised wing, the harpy hid an angry frown. John’s superhuman ears still picked up the rattling of ephemeral chains. Just what had that man said to upset his harpy?

‘Do you wish him stalked?’ Siena asked.

‘No, you’re spying on the right person,’ John responded. The midnight elemental had been travelling, through the shadow of the table, into Bertrand’s. Later, the Gamer was certain, that would be useful. The best way to find out someone’s true character was to know what they said when one wasn’t around.

“May I be informed about the nature of this gathering?” Lydia asked, having arrived.

“We’re trying to find proposals that would find support in tradition and reform,” Nightingale responded.

“What a splendid suggestion, may I join?”

There was obvious and quick agreement to the queen herself joining the talk. The second seat next to John was quickly vacated, to allow the monarch to sit where she pleased. Even if she typically moved in boots and military coat, she sat down elegantly in her dress. John could not help but admire how cute she looked with those few strands sticking out of her otherwise impeccably made braid bun.

“I am beholden to listen first. Lord Lambert,” the copper-haired royal spoke to the middle-aged man. “You have my respect for your principled and measured opposition. Please, what do the traditionalists wish to achieve or to be maintained?”

“Our primary goal is to maintain the traditions that underpin this country, my queen.”

“That is too broad and also impossible to achieve,” Lydia responded. “Tell me, have you read the Nobility and Land report that I commissioned?”

“I must admit that I have not.”

“Would you accept it if I informed you of its contents?” Lydia asked; the traditionalist nodded. “In summary, Rex Germaniae suffers from an overabundance of lesser nobles. Our tradition to privilege families that are of Innate Ability stems from the necessity to produce capable fighters to keep the peace in a large realm. Differences as to whether that is still required can be had, though the interest of the report is only that this tradition, over a thousand years of iterations removed from its origin, has led to muddled laws and an effective 25% of the population that can claim ancestry of one of the noble houses still in power. I trust you understand what happens when we afford noble privileges in their full effect to one in four people?”

“…Should we then tighten the requirements for who is acknowledged as a noble?” Lambert asked. “Reduce it to the direct descendants?”

“Well, you would make your very own queen illegitimate if you did so,” John threw into the room. “She’s not a direct descendant of her house.”

“I was born of a banished member of the Hohenzollern family,” Lydia reminded all that had forgotten. “My acceptance back into it was at the hands of my late grandfather.”

“Let us not get side-tracked,” Nightingale chimed in. “It appears reform of the inheritance laws can then be agreed upon?”

“To allow that step would be to allow the reformists a victory,” Bertrand stated.

‘I think you just said the quiet part out loud, buddy,’ John thought what he would have said sarcastically, if he hadn’t promised to keep it nice. “Is it more important for the reformists to be frozen or for the nation to prosper?” he asked instead. “Or is this an extension of your definition of nobility? To govern your lessers?”

“All lessers need to be governed. Without government, there’s anarchy and from anarchy, destruction rises. Destruction gives rise to tyranny, because any order is better than none.”

“You are hitting something true there,” John agreed, “but why call them ‘lesser’?”

“An interesting word indeed,” Lydia said, visibly struggling to keep her aggression to the light blue tint of her eyes. “A noble serves the monarch and the nation, certainly. The legitimacy of your blood is tied to the service of your ancestors. It is not a quality inherent to that blood itself.” The queen returned her gaze to Lambert. “The crown acknowledges that many families in Rex Germaniae are worried that my sweeping reforms will, to put it in imagery, throw long reliable pieces off the chessboard. It is, of course, the case that law must be worded with the utmost care. A single strike of a pen could leave me bereft of my family name. It is for that reason that I, albeit I do have my wishes on that front, have not been aiming to destroy the families themselves but to aim at the privileges they enjoy over the rest of my subjects.”

“You complain about lesser, yet call them subjects,” Bertrand stated, before anyone else could say something in. “Interesting.”

“My subjects are not my lessers, Viscount,” Lydia responded. “They are the people of my nation, which I govern. I’m the first servant of the state, as my predecessor was. My legitimacy is born of service, not superiority.” She looked around the table. “That is what we wish to agree on, us reasonable nobles of this ancient nation, is it not? How we can serve most legitimately. Are tax exemptions required for this? Are bribes from the crown? Vetos on matters outside your lands? I understand the need for a splendid estate, for authority is difficult to impose without appearances. Why would the splendour of an estate be differentiated from the wealth of the area it governs?”

“Hear, hear,” the less boisterous members of the reformists, who had been mostly quiet so far, agreed with the effective head of their faction.

“Queen Lydia,” another one of the traditionalists raised their voice, “I understand, truly, your wish to streamline the privileges of the nobility, to curtail them even, but the speed at which you have been acting leaves many of us uncertain of our future. We cannot plan for prosperity when we do not know what rules will still stand in a year. Can you see this?”

Lydia stayed quiet for a few seconds, taking John’s wine glass from him. “I hope you forgive me, my love,” she whispered.

“It’s not my taxes you’re drinking,” he joked.

“I know to put it unblemished like this endangers the tone of this debate, but I will do so anyway: you can follow my lead or be grinded to dust by the gears of time.” The traditionalists looked taken aback by this threat. The stunned silence persisted long enough that Lydia could take a large gulp of her wine. “I have no love for the nobility but I do not hate it either. It has value alone because of how ancient it is, because it has persisted for a long time. I acknowledge this and I admire the decades of service on this side of the table.” She gestured towards the left, where the traditionalists sat. “What I try to tell you, through speeches, action and soft words in gardens like these, is that your institution has grown too powerful. Your influence reaches too far. The only way to weaken it is from the inside,” she gestured to herself, “and any institution that has accumulated such power will inevitably be broken down. You have the choice to align with me and negotiate reasonably to hold onto what the rest of the nation will concede to you to keep your time-honoured positions intact. Or, you can continue to focus on obstruction, and leave me no choice but to see you removed from my path.” She emptied the wine glass. “I do thank you for listening to my rambles. It appears I’m too headstrong for a conversation of compromise.”

“It appears so. You also have given your loyal,” Nightingale stretched that word, “opposition much to think about.”

“She has indeed,” Lambert agreed, stroking his beard slowly.

“You are welcome to invite me for tea, Lord Lambert,” Lydia stated, as she rose to her feet. “My love, would you walk with me? I wish to take a look at the nearby woods.”

“Whatever you wish,” John obliged with a smile.