Arc 9-04
In a perfect world, Talia and I would be curled up in a soft bed while a cool breeze washes over us. I don’t live in a perfect world, though some days it feels damn close. Today, there’s more work to be done. My flower is left at home lest she wilt from the constant work. That leaves my succubus to accompany me as we ride into the city to handle the next item on the agenda.
The ride does work to improve my strained temper. In my admittedly biased opinion, the city looks much better than its predecessor. Settlements tend to develop unevenly. They start as a matter of necessity, with a handful of buildings between homesteads and the estate of the ruling noble if they’re around. A town hall for official purposes, a storehouse for winter, a clear space for trading, and, more often than not, a place to drink, even if it’s someone’s barn. From there, anyone with the gold and inclination can buy up any parcel of land, interests carving up the surroundings until the collection of farms becomes a recognizable settlement.
Only then do the powers that be tend to recognize it as something more than a source of taxes. Some sort of official, usually a third or fourth son of the territory’s governing noble, is dispatched to the burgeoning town along with a retinue of capable people who will impose order on the chaos of the country in hopes of growing the town into something more. An uphill battle, as the landowners won’t be happy with the interference.
In the end, most cities become convoluted and over—planned, a maze of twists and turns with few landmarks to navigate by. Even Summer Spire, our capital designed by learned men from the beginning and the inspiration behind New Quest’s design, becomes a mess beyond the Noble Ring, the planners failing to plan effectively for the expansion of the city after the survivors of Harvest’s conquest returned, seeking wealth and importance.
Not my city. New Quest has been planned from the ground up, literally. There isn’t so much as a wasted corner. It will take the rest of the year for the greenery to really show, but even now, I can see the trenches that mark future roads and the posts defining building plots. It’s like walking into a well-kept home; even a slob can appreciate an orderly space. Order is comforting. Progress has a way of touching even the coldest hearts.
How do I know? Geneva wouldn’t be the skin-crawling horror that keeps me up at night if she wasn’t monitoring the citizens. With my permission, of course. The last thing I need is more rebels. Thankfully, that doesn’t seem to be a concern. The people aren’t fond of me but my vision for the city has been received well. Who knows how’d they feel with more options, but the general opinion is that they can trust that I want to put the city back on its feet.
We’re on our way to one of the keys to my plans. My goal is a city that runs itself, but we’re lacking personnel to do the running. Normally, a newly appointed noble brings with them a staff of vassals and lesser family members. The Tome family doesn’t have the numbers; of the people we do have that I trust, my cousins, neither would want the job. I also hate the idea of hiring from other cities. I’m not just trying to build a city, but an entire new way of doing things. A culture. Rather than browbeating learned minds spoiled by traditions of indulgence and incompetence, building my ideal workforce seems the sounder strategy.
The first area to be built, with the help of Bell’s incredible earth affinity, was District 1, in the Central Ring, otherwise referred to in the planning stage as the records district. Several official buildings, including a courthouse and a literal records building, were put up, as Geneva insists that everything will fall apart if proper records aren’t kept from the beginning.
The next district to get the succubus’ attention, is District 33 in the Residential Ring. The quicker people are housed, the better. My section houses have been going up at a rapid pace, each one sheltering hundreds of souls. It’s tight quarters, but, with plumbing throughout the buildings, sturdy building materials, and efficient designs, I’d wager most people are in better circumstances. Another benefit would be the school in the middle of the district, easily accessible to all ready to improve themselves. Our destination.
As always, my lips twitch upwards as I step off my carriage before the masterpiece. Three massive stories of white stone, its front a grand visage of half a dozen columns and arch windows softened by the simple shutters put in place until proper windows can be fitted. Two flags hang on either side of the double front doors; on the left, a simplified version of the royal crest, the stag head done in red over a white cloth, on the other side a simplified version of my own crest, the book stitched with black thread over a white cloth.
In my green city, there’s no way such an important building wouldn’t have a garden, the fledgling space only having four large squares of neat grass divided by stone walkways with benches sprinkled throughout, but as one of my gardener’s personal projects, it won’t remain mundane for long. It wouldn’t be safe either, but he’s confined to a promise of nothing poisonous; the last thing the school needs is avoidable accidents.
Last, standing in the middle of the front garden, ready to greet all with the intention of changing themselves and their futures, is a statue made of twilight, the strange stone carved in the image of a featureless man caught in a moment of wild joy, head tilted back and arms thrown wide.
It took a while, but I finally got around to making that statue.
My smile wanes as I step off my carriage; someone is waiting for us at the doors. From the way his lax figure suddenly tenses, I imagine he’s been waiting like this all morning, maybe every morning since I told the staff I’d be doing an inspection two weeks ago, perched on the front step like a lazy bird waiting for its prey to come waltzing into its path. He dives toward us as soon as our feet touch stone, then reveals that he is more of a pigeon than a hawk, opening his beak to beg for scraps.
“Good afternoon, my lady! We’re thrilled to show you our progress!”
I bet you are. “Mister…”
“Yates, my lady.”
“Yates.” My eyes rove over him; he’s made an attempt at the clean formality associated with professionals, scrounging up a decent pair of pants and an off-white shirt with mismatched buttons, speaking to years of wear and repair. His dark hair is clean and combed, his fair skin unmarred by signs of hard work. A far cry from the state of my citizens a month ago. Still, I’m not thrilled to see him.
“I made it clear that I didn’t require an escort.”
“Of course, of course. However, we understand that the lady must be incredibly busy building a city. To expediate matters, we thought it best to provide a guide. I can also inform you about our immediate plans for the future.”
You mean you can fast talk to cover your asses if I find the school lacking.
“I know your plans. They’re my plans.”
“Indeed, the Cosmian School of Growth and Excellence strives to reach the goals set forth by your ladyship. I would merely be highlighting the current steps we’re taking.”
Saints give me patience. Can we leave his idiot here?
[It could prove demoralizing to your staff. They are nervous enough working for you without thinking they are expendable.]
Ugh. Just a little more and we’re out of this city.
“Go on,” I tell the simpering staff, trying to keep the disdain out of my voice and face.
“Great! Right this way.”