The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

The Question of Ethics

"Oh, Pride—before he died you see—had this list of books he thought everyone one should read before...well, they followed him to the grave, as it happens. I've been trying to make my way through it, in his honor."

"So, one a year, maybe?"

"Or two, or two." Lark laughed. "But this is perfect! Words on a page don't stick too well with me in large doses like this, but if someone explains something to me while I ask questions, I never forget it."

"Who did your explaining to get you through school, then? Venture?" Able meant it as a joke.

"For sure," Lark replied, quite in earnest. "He'd read the whole thing, then explain it to me. Problem was, more often than not, he'd have it all wrong." They shared a good chuckle before Lark continued, "Pride was much better at it when he wasn't getting so stuck on the idea that I should really read it myself."

"Well, I need to get some breakfast." Able stood and paused. He shouldn't. But he really wanted to. "And then we can work through Foundation some more?"

"Sure!" Lark's effervescent grin alone nearly sank Able back into the chair. What was he doing?

Soon explaining the book's ideas chapter by chapter while he nibbled through biscuits was what. Fortunately, he still found this book as engrossing as when he'd first read it. So engrossing that he didn't notice when he had lost Lark's attention and was startled when his friend grunted and swore through the act of getting up.

"What's the matter?"

"You don't hear that?" Lark made his ginger way towards the window at the front of the house, swore again, then hurriedly stepped into his boots.

Leaving the book behind, Able followed to see a carriage out front and was about to declare he found it insignificant before he realized it was lacquered black. A Larbant official. Lark had already started down the stairs to the shop, skirts in hand, so Able continued to follow. Halfway down, he too heard Hatling's distressed voice.

"I don't understand. You were just here two months ago and everything was...well not you you, but another...representative?"'

"That's right," an almost smoky voice said. "Not me. And from my books, I estimate you owe me three hundred sixty cees, so if you don't have it—"

"But we paid!" Hatling cried and held a paper across the counter to the Larbant man, not so tall nor broad, but with four men fitting that description standing behind him. "This proves we paid!"

He snatched the paper from her hand and shredded it in half. "It doesn't have my signature on it." He let the pieces fall. "It is invalid."

"Hey, old girl." Lark stopped behind Hatling and held her trembling shoulders. "Why don't you let me handle this, and you go upstairs and make yourself a nice cup of tea?"

"That does sound nice," she muttered and, without looking at him or anyone else, made a beeline for the back stairs. She didn't even look at Able when he stepped out of her way.

Lark took her place at the counter before anyone could raise an objection. "I'll need to see your edict, please."

"What," the tax collector had been blinking but needed one blink more before he could finish his thought, "are you supposed to be?"

"The manager of this establishment," Lark replied with perfect calm despite the tension emanating off his shoulders.

Able stepped up beside him, hoping his presence would lend some credence.

But the collector did not take his eyes off of Lark. "No, you're...some sort of faggot whore."

"There is a proper order to these dealings," Lark insisted, "and it begins with the edict."