The Continent (The Continent #1)(80)

“And well they shouldn’t,” says Mr. Chamberlain, who I have started to suspect is rather a pet of Mrs. Pendergrast’s making. “The Continent is their home, and they certainly do not belong here.”

The Chancellor regards me with undisguised curiosity. “If you do not mean to petition for their relocation, then what is it you wish to ask of us?”

Gathering my courage, I rise and move forward to the table. “I have drawn you a map,” I say, “marking every key point of battle, and every settlement of which I am aware—Topi as well as Aven’ei.”

I take the parchment from my hip and roll it out on the table, pinning down the corners with my fingertips. “You are brilliant leaders—brilliant, and resourceful. In your hands, this map is but a blueprint—and you are the engineers.”

The Chancellor blinks. “I’m not sure I understand.”

I tap the paper. “Build walls. Destroy access points. Create defenses the likes of which have never been seen on the Continent! Spirian construction is vastly superior to anything the natives can contrive—don’t you see? You can save the Aven’ei without ever raising so much as a finger against the Topi. You have the power to end this. You have the power to stop another war.”

Mr. Lowe gets out of his seat in order to take a better view of the map; Mr. Chamberlain and the still-silent Mr. Wey follow suit. Mrs. Pendergrast remains in her chair, her back straight and stiff, her pale blue eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

“The Topi are gathering here,” I say, indicating the settlements in the south. “Likely they will advance through the Vale and try to pin the Aven’ei against the sea. They could travel through the mountains, of course, the Aramei and the southern Kinsho—but this is very unlikely. It would be far easier for their numbers to pass through the reaches of the south.”

“And will the Aven’ei retreat?” Mr. Lowe asks. “Gather with their forces in the north?”

“I do not think they will leave the south, sir. I think they will make a stand.”

Mr. Lowe studies the map intently. “Defenses might be made before the Topi set out. It is not a bad idea. It is not at all a bad idea.”

Mrs. Pendergrast sucks in her breath, her dark red lips pursed like a deathly kiss. “And who shall pay for it, sir? We in the North are not so inundated with wealth and raw materials that we should be inclined to jaunt off to the Continent and erect walls for a bunch of savages.”

“Mrs. Pendergrast,” Mr. Lowe says hotly, “you have only just announced your plans to construct a colossal amphitheater in the heart of your capital city. How is it that you can spare so little when you have already amassed a store of both funds and materials?”

“Our civic objectives are none of your concern,” she replies. “Nor is the state of our treasury. I will ask you to tend to your own purse, and keep your nose out of mine.”

The Chancellor holds up his hands. “Let us not bicker with one another like children. Vaela has put a reasonable point before us, and I think we should give it our fair consideration.”

“There is nothing to consider,” Mrs. Pendergrast says flatly. “I refuse to contribute.”

“As do I,” Mr. Chamberlain puts in, nodding. “We haven’t the resources.”

The Chancellor turns to Mr. Lowe. “And you, sir?”

Mr. Lowe looks at me, his sapphire eyes burning with intensity. “The West shall give all it can to see the Aven’ei protected. It is the moral thing to do.”

“If you want my opinion,” Mrs. Pendergrast says, “that’s the most foolish thing you’ve said all day.”

He smiles. “I most certainly do not want your opinion.”

“It is down to you, then, Mr. Wey,” the Chancellor says. “We have heard nothing from you at all as of yet.”

Mr. Wey returns to his seat and folds his hands in his lap. “I say no.”

The Chancellor does not seem surprised. “Do you wish to give a reason?”

“It is a simple matter,” he says, and shrugs in resignation. “If we intervene, Spirians may die. Construction of any kind will take time. It is not worth the risk.”

Mr. Lowe makes a derisive noise. “Are you saying that the blood of a Spirian is worth more than that of an Aven’ei?”

“Don’t act the innocent, Oliver,” Mr. Wey says, pointing a wrinkled finger at Mr. Lowe. “You yourself toured the Continent not five years ago. You went to see the war, just as we all have done.”

“And vowed never to do so again.”

“So you say,” Mr. Wey replies. He is quiet for a moment, then straightens in his chair and adds, “For the sake of courtesy, and in the spirit of candor, I will answer your previous question: yes. The blood of a Spirian is worth more. I say it without malice, sir. It is only what I believe to be true, for my duty lies with my own people.”

Mr. Lowe looks back and forth amongst his fellow Heads of State, color rising in his cheeks. “Is that the way of it, then? This is what you choose?”

“The majority has spoken, Mr. Lowe,” the Chancellor says. “The Spire must act as One.”

Mr. Lowe turns to me, anger and frustration glittering in his eyes. “I apologize on behalf of the Spire, Miss Sun. Apparently, peace is now far too priceless a commodity to share.”