Chapter 311: The Sorrow of One Family

The silver line beside the lectern gleamed.

Richard glanced down through his Occult Spiritual Vision.

In the shallows behind the veil, something took shape the moment his words regarding Melos landed.

It was a balance scale.

A pile of gold coins weighed down one end of the rust-colored beam, while straw sandals weighed down the other.

Both sides swayed; the sliding weight rested off-center.

The Affirmative's argument—that facts outweighed stances—had crossed the veil and condensed into this half-iron, half-rusted scale where neither side could overpower the other.

Richard knew it full well.

A Scholar's true skill lay in arguing for the side they could not convince even themselves to believe.

"Mr. Williams."

Bolton spoke, his Northern accent slower now than before.

"You brought up the words of the Athenians at Melos."

"You want me to concede that the weak must simply endure."

"But you have forgotten the fate of the Athenians after that dialogue at Melos."

Bolton's voice rose.

"Their entire army was annihilated in Sicily."

"Athens went into decline from that very day, collapsing over the decades into the empty shell we read about in our textbooks."

"You wield Melos as your authority... are you cursing us?"

A faint, collective intake of breath rippled through the lecture hall.

Richard cast his Inspiration along the silver line, peering once more behind the veil.

The beam gave a sharp clack, and the side with the gold coins sank another half-inch.

The weight was still sliding, but it began to shift toward the straw sandals.

Beneath it, the patterns on the few floating Roman gold coins began to fade.

The quote he had just cited from Vespasian—"Money has no odor"—

had been violently undercut by Bolton's "Athenian decline," dragging the stench right out into the open.

Richard took a breath.

This was the rule of scholarly debate. His aunt had warned him long before the competition.

One allusion built a construct; another could tear it down.

Whoever struck deeper roots had the sturdier construct.

"Negative, continue."

Bolton did not look at the audience. His gaze remained locked onto Sir Muller.

"The Affirmative presented three arguments today."

"One was the Statistics Bureau's data, one was Crassus funding his legions, and one was Melos."

"The Statistics Bureau's data." The youth held up a single finger.

"Seventy percent goes to the sea routes and thirty percent to the war profiteers, but the Bureau's data never accounts for who controls those sea routes."

"On the roster of the Wartime Trade Committee, four of the seven commissioners are directors from the three major syndicates of cotton, flour, and transport."

"They close the sea routes, then hang the keys on their own bonds and sell them."

"You call them pillars of the state. I call it 'locking the gates just to open them again, collecting a toll both ways.'"

The expressions of the middle-aged men in suits darkened at those words.

"Crassus." Bolton raised a second finger.

"The Affirmative mentioned that he funded his legions out of his own pocket, but conveniently omitted how he died."

"He was surrounded by the Parthians at Carrhae, beheaded, and had molten gold poured down his throat."

"The Parthians said, 'You thirsted for gold your entire life, so now drink your fill.'"

"Crassus was a pillar of the state?"

"He gorged himself on that pillar, and in the end, died choking on gold."

Bolton's gaze finally settled on Richard.

"You use this man to justify the trading syndicates... but you are relying on a corpse stuffed with gold."

The scale behind the veil let out another sharp clack.

The side with the gold coins began to plummet, sinking fast.

Beneath it materialized a long-spouted bronze pitcher. It was brimming with molten gold, its mouth aimed directly at the scale's pan.

The very phrase "the death of Crassus" had birthed this vessel the moment it crossed the veil.

Richard knew he had fumbled his opening argument; by this point, he was thoroughly on the defensive.

The tilted beam behind the veil could not be hidden from the judges.

But being at a disadvantage was not the same as losing. He still had his final closing argument.

"Three minutes for closing statements," the moderator announced.

"The Affirmative will begin."

Richard stepped up to the lectern.

"Mr. Bolton spoke of the night of his father's cave-in, the two pence earned by his mother's needlework, and the single pound of flour in his home."

"I deeply sympathize."

His tone slowed.

"But I ask the judges to consider something..."

"These are merely the tragedies of Mr. Bolton's own family."

"A single family's plight can inspire sympathy, but it cannot dictate national law."

Several judges in the hall gave nearly imperceptible nods.

"What we are debating on this stage today is whether war profiteers are parasites upon the state, or its pillars."

"National law is not drafted for a single household. It must balance the accounts for the entire realm."

Richard's gaze swept across the hall.

"Mr. Bolton's mother earning two pence a night is a reality."

"But across the Empire tonight, there are tens of millions of other mothers."

"A female worker at a munitions plant in North Manchester District earns twelve pence a night. The pound of flour in her home is paid for by factory orders, coming straight out of wartime supply contracts."

"A naval lieutenant's widow in Portsmouth lost her husband last month when his ship sank at Dogger Bank. The pound of flour in her home is bought with her pension, and that pension is funded by wartime bonds."

Richard laid his hands flat upon the lectern.

"Mr. Bolton speaks for his family, but I can speak for others."

"If national law were based merely on 'my family,' it would have to change its face every single day."

"Today for Mr. Bolton's mother, tomorrow for the munitions worker, and the day after for the officer's widow."

"In the end, no one would have any solid ground to stand on."

Richard's gaze settled on the opposition's lectern.

"We must balance the entire ledger. There are parasites, yes, but there are also pillars."

"The sorrow of one family cannot balance the accounts of an entire nation. It can only speak for itself."

"The Affirmative stands by its original position: 'war profiteering' must be analyzed case by case. We must differentiate."

"And differentiation relies on the numbers."

"I rest my case."

A hush fell over the lecture hall.

Richard's Inspiration swept across the space behind the veil.

The beam was still tilted, but the sliding weight was inching back toward the center.

The bronze pitcher brimming with molten gold slowly faded away.

In the front rows of the audience, a few ladies lowered their eyes.

The Bolton family did not represent the entire realm. They understood that much.

"The Negative will now give their closing statement."

Bolton stepped up to the lectern.

The youth's face was pale. He retrieved the unfinished embroidered handkerchief from his pocket.

"...Mr. Williams spoke of two other families."

"And he is right."

"My solitary family cannot outweigh the entire realm he speaks of."

"But tonight, my mother's needle still will not stop."

The boy placed the handkerchief on the lectern.

"The Negative stands by its original position."

"I rest my case."

The applause this time was noticeably weaker than when Richard had finished.

The judges whispered among themselves for a while before the moderator announced the results.

"Preparatory Group, Match One."

"Affirmative, Richard Williams. Rhetoric: eight point eight. Delivery: eight point nine."

"Negative, Sinclair Bolton. Rhetoric: eight point four. Delivery: seven point nine."

"The Affirmative leads by one point four. Victory goes to the Affirmative."

A steady round of applause filled the room.

Richard stood and offered a slight bow toward the opposing lectern.

Bolton returned the gesture.

As the boy walked past Richard, he squeezed the unfinished handkerchief in his pocket.

"...Mr. Williams."

"Yes?"

"Those two families you mentioned at the end."

"Are they real?"

"Of course."

Bolton offered him a small smile.

"The next time I stand on this stage, I won't be talking about handkerchiefs anymore."

The boy turned and walked off the stage.

Richard stood behind the lectern and slowly closed his eyes.

He had won. He had won on technique.

But he hadn't won a single victory in his own heart.

Mundus vult decipi (the world wishes to be deceived) ergo decipiatur (so let it be deceived)

Montagu's match was scheduled immediately after Richard's. The topic of debate was: "Interning enemy aliens—is it self-preservation, or injustice?"

Montagu had drawn the Affirmative.

His opponent was Rose, an older undergraduate from their own university.

Richard found a seat and sat down.

Before Montagu took the stage, Catherine took the empty seat beside Richard.

The red-haired girl pulled a notebook from her satchel and handed it to him.

Richard took it. The page was covered in dense, tiny handwriting, listing all the competitors from various institutions who had registered for this Debate Week.

It also detailed their respective families' positions in the wartime supply chains.

Richard glanced at it and raised an eyebrow.

"Why did you compile all this?"

"Just in case we get matched against them..." Catherine clearly had a plan. "Better safe than sorry."

Richard understood.

Nemesis, the goddess of "excess" and "imbalance."

By borrowing this goddess's power, Catherine could instantly see through the bias and calculations hidden in an opponent's words.

But to wield that power, she first needed to know exactly where their "bias" lay.

This notebook was the compass pointing out that direction.

Montagu took the stage.

Richard handed the notebook back to Catherine and turned his attention to the stage.

Montagu's delivery wasn't particularly impassioned, but his sheer composure carried its own heavy weight.

"Esteemed judges, the Empire formally declared war on August the fourth. By September the first, we had the Enemy Aliens Act. Our position today is this: Inter arma silent leges (in times of war, the law falls silent). After Hannibal crossed the Alps, the Romans drove out every descendant of Carthage still residing in Rome... regardless of what generation they were or how many years they had held citizenship, they chased them all beyond the mountains, and in doing so, they left behind this very phrase."

On the other side of the veil, right along the stage's silver line, a segment of a city wall materialized out of thin air.

Its square stones were stacked with pristine precision. A legion banner was planted atop the ramparts, bearing the "Victory Eagle" emblem of the Sixth Legion.

As they listened, the people in the audience found themselves leaning slightly forward.

This was how the density of Ether manifested in a debate.

But his opponent across the stage was equally formidable.

By the time Montagu sat back down beside Richard, that perfect composure had silently cracked.

"The judges only gave me a 'narrow margin' victory."

The blond young man shook his head with a wry smile. "Anyone who can stand on this stage has true substance to them."