The council, for as long as Elvera could remember, had been inept in all but the most menial of duties. Anything more than renewing approvals for deeds and projects taken up by their predecessors, who in turn received holdovers from theirs, was considered a pressing matter. Tabloids would swoop in, glueing together a headline from threadbare semblances of an interesting story.
That had all changed sixteen years ago, when war descended on the capital. Even then, with each passing year, they deluded themselves with a return to normalcy until magical roots engulfed an entire portion of the city.
Today, it reassured her in a sense to see those faces—ever so bored as they twiddled with blunt pens and desk lamps—were desperately trying to hide their fear. The status quo was beyond broken; erased, and with nothing to replace it, nothing to hold on to.
“If the honourable members of the Geverdian Council can be seated,” the house speaker said, nodding to their left, and then their right, each side waiting their turn to sit. Finally, the speaker took their own seat and adjusted the dials on their mask. “I declare this sitting of parliament, September 25th, open,” they said, their voice now half an octave lower.
Elvera watched from the sidelines, tucked behind the railings of a press gallery floating in the space above the amphitheatre while journalists eagerly awaited their next words, notebooks and Pattern Recorders in hand.
“The subject of this session and subsequent sessions until the matter is considered ‘resolved’, will concern the recommendation by the Emergency Constitutional Committee 1944, and their call for a referendum once the interim period concludes, and the Prime Minister is relieved of their emergency powers.”
Furious scribbling from those around her, in contrast, the Council were still, frozen in time almost. Elvera imagined that there was little decision left to be made—whatever opinions lay behind the eyes of those sitting before her, were the lanterns that would count at the end of the session.
The speaker turned to the left side of parliament, where the incumbent took their seats; a loose, bumbling coalition of conservatives, minor parties and independents that together, made just over half the crowd.
Loose. Bumbling. An alliance that hadn’t once ratified their stance on policy in the event of the Queen’s death. If Elvera saw the end of the alliance before her very eyes, she’d be a lot less surprised than she’d want to be.
The Prime Minister stood, stark difference in looks from their predecessor, but not in promises or policy. A beak as well, they were known amongst the press as a sharply dressed fellow whose suits drew more attention than their speeches.
Then, the speaker turned right, and the Trader’s and Union’s Party greeted them. Smaller, but only just. A unified force, and why the New Modernists proved to be such a headache.
“Good morning, honourable members. As one of many, many sessions we’ve come together for over the past few days, please forgive me for skipping some necessary formalities,” they said, tapping their documents against the table. “The Geverdian Conservative Coalition, after long deliberation, has come to a strong, definitive stance.”
Building up gravitas, they squared their shoulders to the enemy, the New Modernists amongst them.
“We refuse a referendum.”
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That sent ripples through the balcony, pens scratching into notepads.
WE.
REFUSE.
And other such out-of-context headline material. The Prime Minister seemed to be aware, and they let the revelation sink into the Council. Few faces were remotely surprised, at most disappointed by reality.
Satisfied with their showmanship, they moved on.
“Members of the Council, we must face it. We are weak, in a time of crisis, and the most vulnerable we have been in a long time. The Harchet Institute and other such think tanks have advised us that holding a referendum now would only extend this period of vulnerability by up to six months. Six months, Master Speaker and members of the gallery, six more months without concrete leadership is something we can easily avoid in this cabinet today.
The truly faithful of the conservatives levied a round of here-here’s that sounded more like the slovenly rambles of a drunken crowd. It worked somewhat, filling the room with noise.
“Now I commend the decision of the Constitutional Committee: it is a brave statement to make, and perhaps indicative of just how dire the situation has become, but the longevity of her Majesty’s reign is what has guaranteed this kingdom prosperity. In such a time, what the country calls for is unity and solidarity. Further division at the poll booth will only show weakness.”
The hecklers were louder this time, voices finding more comfort in the solid footing of a proper argument. Another minister would deal with the specific statistics and details; now was the time for heckling.
What continued out of the Prime Minister’s mouth would have sounded reasonable to the average bystander, and on any other day, singling out grievances and offering no solution of their own would have worked. But in a time of crisis, certainty, or merely its appearance, was a valuable asset.
“The country needs a strong, actionable plan to restore order, with a new monarchy at its centre.”
The Prime Minister let the last of their opening statement simmer in uncomfortable silence. As she, and perhaps the keenest amongst the gallery with her, had noticed, the coalition’s junior parties, let alone the crossbench, didn’t look nearly as eager as the conservatives did.
The speaker, jotting down their last notes, turned to the shadow cabinet, where a solemn and bony man in his fifties had patiently endured the heckling with an almost ghoulish straight face from the other side of the centre table.
Like some sort of automaton, he only broke his silence once the speaker nodded.
The council and the gallery went silent. Uncomfortably so.
The shadow prime minister wasn’t somebody made for the limelight—a bureaucrat from start to finish—and the party he ran reflected that. No heckle had thus far fazed them, not a single word from the Prime Minister.
Silently, as though it were another menial meeting, he turned over his first page and began reading aloud.
“By recommendation of the Emergency Constitutional Committee 1944, the Excalan Trades Institute and the Independent Foreign Policy Commission, the Geverdian Trades and Unions party collectively calls for preparations towards a referendum to be held before the expiration of the Prime Minister’s emergency powers.”
The manner in which he spoke was entirely different. Still coherent, but faster, leaving little emphasis on words or sentences. The soft symphony of pencils against notebooks climbed another octave.
There was another gallery too, one on the other side of the Council chambers, hovering above the amphitheatre. Those there were drenched in shadow; the first row was barely visible, let alone further back.
“A referendum with full public backing would take the electoral commission under a month to organise: the ballot paper’s pattern would need only hold the capability to accept a yes or no answer. Counting, provided all Aether-line systems are functional, would be live, and an accurate result would be live in a day.”
The shadow prime minister glanced about the room, the pause in his speech giving the journalists much needed time to finish their notes. But Elvera’s attention had taken him elsewhere—a pale mask watching her from the other gallery, hollow eyes like deep pits of void distinct from the shadow that draped its figure.
Smartly dressed, like a man from the last generation.
The speech down below sank deeper, out of her consciousness like drowning screams under ocean waves. They wouldn’t decide soon, but the Beak who looked straight at her, watched with an air of authority that suggested he already knew what was about to happen.
Then, they vanished into the shadows, and the welling disquiet in her throat ruptured.
Find him. Now.
