139 - To the City 2/3 - To the Terminal Wall
The Lord Granavale made sure to point out wonders to Archmund as they passed through the Elysian Wall. Oranges. Grapefruits. Pineapples. Passionfruits. Miracle berries, which made even sour flavors seem sweet. Wild blueberry pastures. Strawberry meadows. Poppy fields, with their soporific powers. Pine forests. Cacti. All colocated in nigh impossible geographic proximity.
"This is impressive," Archmund said, and he meant it. This far exceeded the best botanical gardens he'd seen on earth. There were no glass greenhouses, no meticulously climate-controlled domes so that each plant might have optimal conditions engineered by some grand mechanical apparatus. To have so many microbiomes in such quick succession was genuinely a marvel, and he could only think that it was the result of magic.
"Each of these parcels of land has Barons and Subbarons assigned to it, all of them dedicated to cultivating and crafting the land to embody the Pax Omnio," his father said. He reached out for a particularly red apple and bit into it with a crunch, before handing another to Archmund.
Archmund bit into it. It was rather mealy and sour, to be frank. The texture of a red "delicious" apple and the tartness of a Granny Smith with not a hint of sugar. But he was hungry enough to finish the damn fruit, as horrid as it was.
"They pride themselves on how freely they can give the fruits of their labors to passing-through travelers."
"How many nobles per microbiome?"
His father shrugged. "Depends on skill. At least one of the Fourth Awakening, supported by several lessers. Anyone at the Fifth Awakening has significantly more options for demesne, employment, et cetera."
"Easily a team of ten?"
"It very well could be."
Archmund looked around. The microbiomes were big, but they weren't that big. One patch of fruit trees blended into another species within eyeshot, and he didn't even have to turn his head. Each different orchard was between the size of an average American backyard and an American city block. Ten people working to maintain such a small patch of land? It was far less efficient than subsistence farming.
"You could live off this land," Archmund said. "All of these fruits. You could very well make a life here."
His father inhaled very, very deeply.
"I assume that goes against the very presuppositions of the Elysian Wall. To make the capital seem like the only bastion of civilization in the world."
"I am glad you grasp the obvious."
"Is it treasonous to say so?"
"I would hardly call it treasonous, so much as… tone deaf. Parochial. Small-minded. Son, I have given you great latitude in your speech and action. In the Imperial Capital, I urge you to observe instead of speaking."
It wasn't bad advice. Archmund decided he should try his absolute best to follow it if he could help himself.
He was beginning to see a new side of his father. At home, his father had always been doting, with a jolly glint in his eye and absolute interest in anything his son had to say. A rather uncharacteristic noble parent, at least based on Archmund's memories of Downtown Abbey. But now his steel shone through. The nervous demands. The ruthless need to cultivate image and skill. Those were now the dominant forces in the mind of Lord Reginald Granavale.
"Still," Archmund said. He couldn't help himself. "All this abundance could solve hunger across the empire. Could solve poverty, even."
"If the common people are capable of restraint, perhaps," his father said. "Their minds would collapse under the decadence."
They ventured through paradise for the better part of a week until his father brought him to an overlook. Below, the lands were shrouded in morning fog, and the rising sun cast the world in a golden hue.
"Look," his father said, pointing at the horizon. An indistinct mass loomed over the horizon, absorbing the morning sun.
Archmund squinted. "Mountains?"
His father shook his head. "The Seven Hills, and the City."
(Because of course there were Seven Hills.)
"We're close?"
"Very," his father said.
Archmund took a long slow breath. He was more nervous than he'd anticipated. Back in Granavale County, he'd cemented himself as the top dog. He was superior in rank to the servants, he was superior in birth to the townspeople, and he was superior in achievement to the other local nobles. But now he was on the cusp of a strange new world, where everyone would be beyond him. Everyone he met from here on out would be somewhere in that great spectrum between him and the Princess Angelina Grace Marca Prima Omnio.
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"First impressions are important," his father said, "but this isn't your formal debut into high society. You can make mistakes here, so long as they aren't so egregious. After all, you have me. I will do all I can to protect you."
The carriage rattled its way into the outskirts of the Capital, and no one took any notice.
For most of their journey they had been utterly alone, but towards the heart of the Empire more carriages joined them, each pulled by Gem-augmented horses. Archmund did his best to avoid looking like a credulous hick as he observed the changing environment, and yet he couldn't help but marvel at the beauty.
The first signs of "civilization" were opulent pleasure villas, manor houses that dwarfed his own, built atop the rolling hills and gazing down at vast estates. Mosaics and frescos dotted their walls. Each had a garden as vibrant and green as the microbiomes of the Elysian Wall, but crafted and tweaked for each owners' taste.
"The pleasure manses of the high nobles," his father said with wistful jealousy. "They don't grow food crops here — they grow heirlooms. Grapes, tomatoes, amaranth. Each as much for decoration as flavor. The Elysian Farms. Majestic and beautiful, but still nothing next to the Elysian Wall."
"We could make our gardens and our lands like this," Archmund said, though he noted the presence of tomatoes, which on Earth had been an American plant as opposed to a European one. "Our home could be as brilliant and rich as these gardens, surely?"
"Son, I love our people — but they would succumb to the temptation of all those sweet and fragrant fruits."
Archmund raised an eyebrow.
"They would grow fat and lazy. A bit of toil is necessary to keep the working man's hands imbued with purpose. Without direction, they stray."
"Would it be that much of an issue to have them fed beyond mere subsistence?"
His father chuckled. "I used to think like you, you know. Then your mother died, and the plague came, and I had to grovel for resources from the Capital, and— you'll see. You truly shall see."
That, Archmund felt, was ominous. He was starting to realize that his father, as much of a doting parent as he was to both Archmund and the commoners of Granavale County, really treated Archmund like the golden child —unable to do any wrong — and the people of Granavale as the black sheep — constantly screwing up and needing a strict guiding hand.
His father seemed to notice his hesitation. "You see how there is no construction that separates the Elysian Wall from the villa district? The fear is not that any would invade the manors from the Elysian Wall, but that those from the manors would breach Elysium. The true wall is the law — the utter knowledge that should any violate the boundary, Emperor Marcus himself would strike them down and bring ruin upon their whole family."
It sounded quite harsh.
"I do not wish to be that kind of ruler," his father said. "I would much prefer that my people know their place."
Archmund had to agree with him on that front, but still the idea of not trying to capture this abundance grated at him.
He could try to run this experiment on his own, and prove his father wrong — grow heirloom tomatoes and grapes, transform unused land to vineyards and farms, and feed the people to see whether they truly became fat and lazy or whether there was an explosion of arts and culture — or he could trust his father.
And why shouldn't he trust his father? They were going into the heart of the Empire, past villas with pure white walls that stretched over acres and acres. Now was not the time for his past arrogance and his "knowledge" to let him make assumptions that could lead to harm. Like his father suggested, he would observe, learning as much as he could, making as many connections as he could, before making his next move. It was time for strategy, not tactics.
After a few more hours of travel, the houses grew dense. The villas gave way to simpler houses, close by and in rows, rather like an American suburb. Each had a modest garden, perhaps the size of a lawn. Yet the air was denser, the wind bearing the distance scent of smoke, the heavens poisoned with excess undirected magic. The roads grew close, packed with tens of carriages, all making their way towards the center of the Empire. It was no superhighway, no interstate, no autobahn, but he'd never seen so many carriages in motion at the same time in his whole life.
Archmund suspected he was making assumptions again. The sky was ugly, and there was magic without form that looked like smog, and the air smelled like shit, but that didn't mean it was pollution.
"Who lives here?"
"Subbarons and barons," his father said. "Each is allotted a parcel of land by the Omnio upon graduation from the Academy."
"It's not hereditary?"
His father shook his head. "This land all belongs to the Omnio Family; and so when the distant relations pass, their lands and holdings are returned to the family proper."
"It sounds like they've devised a very effective way to keep the Imperial Family strong."
"You could say that," his father said. "Though I would not speculate to such a degree."
Always, always there were these landmines, these questions that should not be asked lest others grow offended. Archmund frankly was starting to worry for himself — he was the sort of person who couldn't help but ask, who couldn't help but poke his nose where it shouldn't be. It was going to bite him in the butt one day, but he would hold that off for as long as he could.
He contented himself with watching the houses go by. They were, to be frank… a tad garish. Certainly not what he would associate with nobility. There were golden trimmings on every corner, statues of lurid acts and twisted nymphs adorning every garden. Certainly not the modest grandeur of the villas that bordered the Elysian Wall. The houses blended into each other, and though he burned with the curiosity to investigate them, he knew it wasn't the right time — nor, he suspected, would it ultimately be necessary.
"Look ahead," his father said abruptly.
There was a wall, a grand towering wall, a hundred feet high. A wall made of deep purple stone, with gilded accents and marble. It cast a shadow upon them all. And yet beyond it were towers and spires that shot even higher, made of brick and marble.
"The Terminal Wall," his father said. "The first entrance into the Imperial City proper. We're here, son. Here, the real travails begin."