Slumrat Rising - Vol. 3 Chap. 80 Packing For Home

Truth left the ritual room a little stifled. He still had questions for Merkovah. Many, many questions. About cultivation, about Cup and Knife, about the nature of reality, about ethics, philosophy, theology, politics… about everything. Just having someone he could talk to about these things was immense. Someone he might disagree with, but who had spent half a millennium studying and learning about the world.

Merkovah had always made a point of his private tuition being included as part of Truth’s compensation package. The irreplaceable value of that time was becoming more and more clear.

“Attend me.” The maid appeared before him, bowing politely. It had refined its appearance yet again, adding subtle imperfections to its skin, flecking its hazel eyes with soft tan. It had calibrated its voice too, faintly shifting register, intonation, inflection, to be more pleasing. Truth was amused to see that it was making its non-human nature more obvious. Little things, like “her” ears becoming longer and more pointed, or that “she” was accompanied by a faint smell of roses and musk.

“Arrange lunch, and have a diner packed for me. Summon Butler, and have it attend me as I eat. You shall be present as well.”

“As your Highness commands.” The succubus murmured, bowing.

Truth returned to his hotel room. Incisive wasn’t alerting him to anything. The improved ritual probably worked. Not to mention the fact that Conjin public security probably had a lot of vacancies to fill right now. Certainly their police would be hiring. He reclined in one of the comfortable chairs the luxurious suite provided. Amazing how all that grandeur, the drifting scenes of tropical waters, the incredible richness of the fabrics, the very taste of the air, it all just became “normal.” Invisible. The reality he moved through.

What was that old line? Fish don’t know they are in the water? It’s just their normal. Something like that. He was The Prince. Why would he take note of the furnishings of this modest dwelling? This was his normal, or a little below average.

Why did this all feel so right? So natural? He wasn’t born to nobility, fallen or otherwise. He was a slumrat. Generational trash. One with no real interest in ruling a nation, or a city, or even a modest sized company. He would be pretty iffy about running a gang, if he was honest with himself, and the whole universe seemed to be shouting that being a gangster was his true calling in life. All this despite growing up despising the gangsters he saw around him. Hating them for their petty-mindedness and endless idiot cruelties.

A Prince. A feudal lord. Within his domain, every person, place and thing existed to enhance his wealth, his power or his glory. All his property. Especially the people. Which wasn’t really okay, was it? He was revolted by the thought of ever being a slave again, but oddly comfortable with just giving orders and expecting to be obeyed. Without the slightest intention of compensating the obedient. Serve or die. Be useful or die. Make me money, give me power, give me glory, or die. Because you are sheep and whether I am wolf or guard dog will depend on my being fed.

What if there was a shepard? Someone to lay down the law, ensure the sheep were looked after and the dog was fed for his trouble. God, according to Merkovah. The civilizing and restraining force of religion. But that was plainly nonsense. Hadn’t done a damn thing here in Jeon, clearly.

Whatever the Temple had managed in Siphios, it was pretty invisible to Truth. From his perspective, the thing that humbled the princes and aristocrats was Starbrite, and all the newly rich. The aristocracy of money. The wolves won, and convinced the sheep that the wolves did it for them.

No idea what it was like in Desrin dominated countries, but he had a hard time believing that religion restrained the state. After all, it would be so much more convenient for everyone if the masses didn’t question the divine right of kings, and, naturally, the unquestionable truth of the faith. On pain of death at the hands of the secular authorities, if necessary.

Truth went round and round, not finding an answer. Lunch came soon enough. Melon wrapped in tissue thin wisps of salty, fatty cured ham. The sweet, salty and rich flavors seemed to waltz together, slowly spinning across his taste buds. Then a bowl of noodles, simply and freshly prepared, topped with slivers of duck, green onions, and a ferocious sauce of spice and stone fruit, all topped with crispy fried shallots and little golden garlic chips.

The textures and flavors formed interlocking combinations. Each bite lively, no two exactly the same but all delicious. Dessert was two cookies and a cup of coffee. The cookies were soft, crumbling, rich and moist with a shockingly luxurious taste of almond. The coffee was made exactly how he liked it.

Butler and the maid stood against the wall, waiting patiently while he savored his lunch. Truth carried the coffee over to one of the arm chairs and sat down comfortably. He closed his eyes and took a long sip, luxuriating in the bitterness and warmth of the coffee. He set the cup down on the little table next to him and opened his eyes. The two succubae dropped to their knees, fist pressed to their chest, ready to serve however he wished. Everything where it should be. How it should be. The smell of coffee rising up and tickling his nose.

Dad. It was Dad, on his broken throne. That’s why it felt so familiar. Dad feasting on soup in a cardboard cup and washing it down with the finest schnapps fifteen wen could buy at the corner store. Crushing disobedience with violence, extorting money, demanding the house be cleaned, then screaming that no one should touch his stuff. It was Dad. The male role model with the biggest impact on his life. Every day he asked himself “What would Dad do?” and then did the opposite. How did he miss the obvious connection?

Dad was a bad king. Truth would be a far better one. There was a time when that realization would have paralyzed him, or triggered an emotional explosion. It had been a busy few years since he saw Dad. He had spent a lot of time working on himself. He was heir to a petty tyrant’s foul smelling throne? Sounded like the right kind of seat for a slumrat without ambition. His Dad was welcome to it, if the old bastard still lived. Truth was a rat that looked up. He aspired to a higher throne.

“The best argument for a boss on earth is the existence of a boss in Heaven.” Truth murmured. He remembered the Egg Man saying that when he had his vision. The succubae said nothing. He hadn’t asked their opinion, after all, and they quite agreed anyway.

If he wanted his perfect world, or even his good-enough world, he would have to become that organizing principle. He would have to sit on the throne, and make people arrange themselves in the way he wanted. It came back to power and violence again. It always seemed to. Didn’t Sergeant Murthey have a good line on this? “The most dangerous words in any language are “Follow me!” Something like that.

He looked over at the kneeling succubae. They would kneel for as long as he wished. Not like they had knees to hurt. So long as he was giving them what they craved- cosmic energy, and a more defined reality. They would obey in the hopes of getting more of those things, and for fear of losing them.

That was the Starbrite way, wasn’t it? If you had the glittering city, with its thrones and servants, you needed the slums. You needed the slumrats. You needed a very visible alternative, to encourage ambition. Encourage greed. Encourage them to be violent on your behalf.

He could feel things clicking inside his mind, connections being made. All those questions on philosophy, on theology, economy, all starting to come together. He might not have all the pieces, and he sure wasn’t seeing the whole picture, but he was putting together the puzzle.

“Hear my orders. I will be leaving Conjin. Arrange transport from here to Sokhi by boat, a small but quick and luxurious pleasure craft. One staffed by demons. I tire of humanity. You,” he pointed at the maid, “Inform Mary that you are leaving her service and will accompany me. For her obedience, she will be granted the following information-”

Truth gave out the coordinates and date of the battle that got him killed, but didn’t mention that it was over a kidnapped daughter of the Shattervoid clan. “This is the last time anyone outside of Starbrite can confirm the location, and identity, of “Her.” She may use this information how she chooses.”

“My thanks, my Prince. I swear I shall dedicate my all to your service.” The Maid started to rise, but was stilled by his hand.

“Butler, how is your project coming?”

“Early days, my Prince. However, he is not very resistant. His education will take a few months to complete, but I do not foresee it taking longer than that.”

Truth nodded, then turned back towards the maid. “Inform Mary that I will be taking her grandson as well, and I will see to it that he is fed. He is not being adopted into my retinue at this time, but he will be provided education and opportunities.” He flicked his hand, sending her on her way.

“Your servant obeys.”

Truth glanced back at Butler. “I expect my clothes will be cleaned, pressed and packed by the time the maid returns. We will be underway before dinner.”

“Your servant obeys.” The succubus smiled happily. Its cheekbones had grown more pronounced, its hair turned an inky black, its eyes alternately warm and cruel. Its every move was elegant, yet powerful. It was truly becoming a handsome young butler.

Truth sat back in the chair and sipped his coffee, as others got to work. In just two hours, he was striding out onto a flying cloud. His servants, a beautiful maid and a handsome butler, came behind. The maid carrying a luxurious duffel bag, the butler wheeling a small, but fully packed, suitcase.

They were met at the underwater dock by a sleek capsule shaped like a blunt dart. The side of it rose like a curtain, and they walked into the plush interior. Deep sofas, a king sized bed, a bar, all manner of luxury furnishings bathed in blue and pink lights from the concealed talismans. The walls shimmered, as an illusory array projected the exterior of the vehicle on the interior. Once they were set, a whale demon was summoned from the deep. It nosed comfortably into the formations at the front of the capsule, and settled in. Like a horse pulling a cart, gaily trotting along.

“Now seems as good a time as any. You-” he pointed at the maid. “I shall name you and give you a nature- you are Maid. You shall serve me as you have done so far. Should I acquire more staff, you may have more responsibility.”

Maid genuflected. “I am grateful beyond words!” Truth couldn’t see the difference, but apparently it was significant to the succubus. Good enough.

“Butler, I’m going to leave a variety of practical matters to you. Particularly the training of that.” Truth pointed to the suitcase. “It occurred to me. He is a high citizen. Naturally, he will have to be enrolled in the System. You have until the end of the coming month to make him unshakably loyal. Loyal to the point where he could no more betray me than fly.”

“Such things have been tried before, Master, with varying degrees of success. I cannot guarantee my incompetence will not ruin your plans.” Butler sounded worried.

“No need to be afraid. My trip to Conjin was very productive. You see, I have what is, I suspect, a unique combination of spells at my disposal.”

Truth leaned back against the sofa. He hadn’t inquired how this vehicle was being paid for. Or if it was. He truly didn’t care, because it truly didn’t matter.

“I have a bad habit. Every time I see something particularly good, I ask, “Why doesn’t everyone do that?” and the answer is usually because it is rare, difficult, expensive, or simply not useful in most people’s lives. Powerful in my hands, yes, but why does a chartered accountant need body cultivation? Or a combat spell, even if it made him terribly persuasive? What would a cheesemaker use Greame’s Arrow for?”

The succubae were silent. Masters monologuing were a constant feature of their existence. They had never minded it. It helped them shape who they should be.

“My spells and blessings are aimed at making me the arbiter of my local reality. I hadn’t connected the dots until this trip, but that’s what they do. My body cultivation makes me more real than my surroundings. I weigh heavier on the world than they do, and my actions count for more. More so every day. My combat spell lets me project that reality onto the world around me, lets me shape how others perceive that reality, even foreseeing how the world will be shaped around me, so that I may adjust it to my benefit. My healing and spiritual combat spell lets me forcibly correct reality, to be more in line with how it should be. And my blessings let me decide on how it should be.”

He softly laughed.

“The world is very real. God believes in it an awful lot, even if he’s ignoring us right now. But as weak as I am in the grand scheme of things, I am finally strong enough to have a say. And now I’m coming home to Harban. No more confronting the “real world.” The world will have to confront the reality of me.”