The weekend came, and Jean received a correspondence from Robert Joachim. It was an invitation for a dinner on Wednesday, just as Jean had anticipated. Jean composed a polite response, conveying his gratitude for the invitation and his eagerness to attend the forthcoming event. In the meanwhile, he had not neglected to acquaint the Grand Duke that Jean might not be so punctual, as he would be occupying the morning in the company of a most noble personage within the confines of the Royal Palace—a subtle strategy. Jean felt sanguine about the plan. It was going well.
Rumors were running high in the capital that the emperor’s malady had taken a turn for the worse. The old man, having been bedridden for some time, must soon be called upon by the heavens. And perhaps this was the source of the tales that the Grand Duke and the Crown Prince came and went to the emperor’s chamber, silently asserting each other’s dominance. Maximillian Joachim, the sole offspring of the emperor, and Grand Duke Robert, the foremost in succession among the emperor’s six brothers—the tales were warranted with some truth to them.
“How could a sickly green boy stand a chance against the Grand Duke, the man who was once the sword of the frontiers?”
However, not many were intrigued by the contest for the throne, for the winner was quite evident.
“’Tis best we not convene for a while. The Grand Duke must be keen to observe us.”
Jean told Wickham, who was just appearing back after changing his attire. The two of them were meeting in a tailor’s shop, feigning coincidence. Wickham’s excuse was procuring a dress of Chantelle, and Jean’s was fitting a new garment for his dinner with Robert Joachim. The owner of the shop was also a member of the cause, rendering the rendezvous free of threat. Still, they couldn’t help but stay vigilant, on their guard.
“None of those on his side would have any interest on this side.”
Wickham scoffed. He was not wrong, but Jean still shook his head.
“Remember always, Nathan, that the insurrection of the mighty demands vigilance, while our own rebellion amounts to mere trampling and suppression.”
Wickham sighed lightly at Jean’s words and nodded. The knight’s reflection in the mirror was pale. Now that the deed had officially begun, he must be feeling nervous.
“I assume that the recruitment is going all well?”
After observing his friend’s color, Jean asked. Wickham nodded, tying a cravat. He was trying on a new coat while he was at the tailor’s.
“Mostly correspondents and journalists. More knights from the Grand Duke’s side joined too.”
Events were unfolding seamlessly. There was no need to involve the common people, who had it hard enough making ends meet on a daily basis, fully occupied with the task. They had what was necessary—a tycoon to finance manpower, journalists to disseminate information, and knights with actual physical force.
“...What about the church?”
However, for reasons unknown, that scenery passed Jean’s mind. The scenery of people forming a long line to receive bread. Wickham frowned. Did the question bother him? The church? Wickham repeated after Jean.
“Do you mean those in the clergy, Jean?”
Wickham inquired further, his distaste and doubt apparent in his tone, which was rightly vindicated. Apart from the royal family, those in church serving in the clergy were said to be the wealthiest. They were aristocrats, in a sense, rich and privileged as they were. In terms of their exclusivity, indeed, they were no different from the nobles. However—
“We don’t need their men to join us,” Jean started while silently thinking to himself.
—those who were receiving bread before the church were different from its so-called servants.
“I simply thought that it would be prudent to provide financial aid to one or two churches. Many seemed to rely on them for food, getting their rations,” Jean continued cautiously.
Wickham scoffed. You sound like Chantelle, he jeered. Jean narrowed his eyes as Wickham dismissed him.
“Jean, to do so would be merely obscuring the frontline.”
“Let’s say that we’re expanding the line of our brethren.”
“Brethren? Who? Those relying on the church, you mean? Those living out in the alleys, you mean? Even if we do take them into our cause, what could they possibly offer us in return, Jean?”
“Our cause is to uproot the empire, and many an event unforeseen awaits us even after our success. Instances of civil conflict shall frequently arise. We could always use more support for our cause.”
Oh my goodness, Wickham’s jaw dropped. His eyes widened. He met Jean’s eyes squarely before shaking his head from left to right. Soon, he let out an empty laugh and inquired with Jean.
“More support for our cause? Them, who could not feed themselves this very moment as we speak? Do you truly believe that?”
“...”
“Even if they do come to aid our cause, Jean, there is no need for us to eagerly step forward. We have no need to initiate an alliance with the church. Once the revolution starts, people will naturally be drawn to its idea. Do we not know who will be the first to gather under our flag?”
Now that was preposterous. Wickham had a tendency to overvalue the ideas of liberty and equality. Jean supposed that it was because of the man’s background, having grown up in the household of an affluent merchant, becoming a knight, albeit the title not being hereditary.
“Nathan Wickham.”
However, Jean could not be bothered to lecture the man about the power of hunger and starvation. Wickham would not be so easily convinced by the notion that bread on the table was far more significant than mere abstract words such as liberty and equality.
“As a part of the brethren, I am simply making a suggestion. And, for I have made a suggestion, I hope you will bring it to the table and discuss it with the others. It is suffice for me to simply hear the verdict.”
“But—”
“It doesn’t have to be from the party. I will do what I can by myself anyway. So when you do reach a verdict, do not hesitate to relay it to me.”
Was it the sternness in the tone? Wickham still had a look of discontent on his face. Nonetheless, he nodded in confirmation. Jean rose to his feet as the tailor brought with him the material to be used. It was a handsome leather in the shade of dark ash. Jean quickly settled upon the semblance of his fresh frock coat and chose the gems that shall adorn it as buttons. He had to prove his wealth once again to Robert Joachim.
“Of all places, you have to be fond of the church...”
Wickham murmured before leaving the shop. His tone seemed baffled. He shook his head left and right as he left. Jean sat in the shop for a brief while. He went out of the establishment only when he deemed that sufficient time had passed. He could see that the alley was graced by sunlight. It must be noon, as the same alley was blessed again by the ringing of the bells of the church.
‘My Joachim.’
Jean recalled the sweet voice of the Crown Prince. He had spoken as if he were looking at something precious before his eyes, but the alley before Jean looked so destitute that it paled before the glory of the sun. Beggars, spaced between the painted walls, were as still as cadavers. Between them, rats crawled, feeding on chipped nails and the sort. And in the middle, people walked, hunched like those very rats. It was a dying alley, a dying empire.
“...Let us return.”
A meager amount of bread would bring forth no significant change. Jean was well aware of that. But someone would survive a day more, thought Jean to himself as he mounted the carriage. Someone would open their eyes and see the new world from Jean’s humble generosity.
Thus, Maximillian Joachim did not prompt this decision. He was not the reason, Jean told himself as he wiped the frost in the carriage window. His face appeared on the glass, and then disappeared. A cryptic expression emerged and vanished just as often for quite some while.