FROM THE NOTES OF CITIZEN SCHMECK – 27th of Paser, Year Nineteen

Can we truly say that the laws of today are better than those of kings?

The very instant my sharp eyes caught those swollen letters upon the front page of that unworthy bundle of paper which Urpen dares to call The Liberator, unfurled by its habitual reader, the neutral representative Tarnbuh, at the far end of the Assembly’s refectory, the piece of bread I was chewing nearly fell from my mouth upon the plate. I leapt from my place and, dropping to all fours for speed, bounded across to the reader and, with a smile, requested the newspaper.

“I citizenly greet you, citizen Commander of the Department of Health,” said the neutral representative, handing me the sheet — not in the tone of true fraternity, alas, but with that servile fear still too often found among neutrals, those proper, middling provincials, who bow alike before the agents of executive power and before the members of the lycanthropic race.

A werewolf, unless afflicted with a cold, can scent every dish in a hall where he finds himself; thus before even glancing at Urpen’s nonsense, I clearly discerned the curry and turmeric — spices which could be found only at the table of Urpen, his master Masden, and the other chiefs of that unpatriotic cabal styling itself the “decent opposition.”

“Can we truly say that today’s laws are better than the royalist ones?” — thus wrote Urpen. Some passages of our Republican Code, he claims, intrude so far upon the individual as to surpass even the old regime: the forcible dissolution of barren marriages, compulsory births and adoption of children, responsibility for the crimes of one’s friends, punishments for so-called ingratitude, the broad obligation to maintain family, friends, acquaintances, even strangers; the criminalisation of speech: a multitude of measures by which society as a whole is placed under the guardianship of the State. All these, says he, resemble not the laws of free men but the edicts of an uncrowned tyranny!

Thus speaks Representative Urpen — and not on any day, but on this day, when the tricolour at last floats above Alvald, when victory immense and glorious has crowned the Republic, he dares dishonour it with such perfidious thoughts.

At that moment a citizeness from the kitchens entered, pushing a cart laden with steaming cauldrons. Before her solemn announcement of a banquet in honour of Alvald’s liberation, I had already named every ingredient of the three stews prepared to nourish the People’s Representation — a meal the like of which we had not, nor shall we, taste for months.

In the Republic of Guntreland, food is served to no man — not even to national representatives. As ever, it is laid upon the golden sideboard, and representatives, with gilt plates from the tyrant’s plundered household, gladly stand in line to serve themselves. The Citizen Commander of Health is no exception: to heal others, he must first feed himself. Thus did my own person advance to the table of victuals.

Soon the Commander Schmeck feasted in that same marble hall, beneath the same crystal chandeliers, from the same gilded vessels — perhaps even upon similar dishes — as once the so-called “king” Afsen, his concubine, and the hereditary scourges of our people. Citizen Schmeck earned this honour not by blood, but by the confidence of the People, by service to the People, by the risks embraced for the People’s welfare.

Under the old regime, a werewolf might have been found in such a place only in a cage, to amuse princes and princesses, or as prey in their hunts. When no longer of use, happy or unhappy to survive, he would end as a curiosity in some wandering circus. And yet now — behold! — he dines where kings once dined, while the sons of Afsen rot in dungeons. Henscher himself proposes to parade them daily round the Pavilion of Immortality, until judgment shall be pronounced. Reasons of security forbid it, for the moment.

And yet Urpen — who is neither werewolf nor vampire — dares to ask: are our laws any better than those of the kings?

For all the Urpens of this world there remains a sure remedy. Without turning my head, without even calling upon my nostrils, I knew that at one table of the hall the new stews were untouched; there, in demonstrative solidarity with the poorest of our citizens, bread and water alone were consumed, mouldy bread indeed, meant more to parade austerity than from true necessity. There sat the leadership of the so-called Club of General Equality, or, as it deserves, the Indecent Opposition — Hrebs, Ostven, and Filusen.

“Citizens, shall we settle accounts with Masden and Urpen?” I asked gaily, tongue lolling, to win their trust.

“The People will settle their accounts without you,” growled Hrebs, puffing on his pipe.

Ostven, tearing apart a decorative clock, mumbled through stuffed mouth: “I settle accounts with all that is decent.”

Such is the opposition! And I felt pity for our Chairman, so consumed with the salvation of the Republic that even on this day of triumph he could not descend to share the banquet. Resolving to carry him a dish of stew, not from servility — for in the Committee all are equals — but from fraternal solidarity, I hastened through the halls.

As citizens greeted me and clapped my shoulder, I pondered: how can a national representative, even in oratorical sport, ask whether our laws surpass those of kings?

We, representatives of the Republic of Guntreland, have wrought a wonder of the world: we have founded a new order, just and good. He who once was persecuted without cause now enjoys honour; he who gloried in crime stands revealed as the enemy of mankind. And yet, even now, this may prove but a fleeting moment, a short-lived dream soon broken by the nightmare of restored tyranny. For our enemies are many and strong. Though victorious today, the Republic remains in mortal peril. And her representatives ask if kingship was better!

Henscher’s office ever smells of paper, ink, and books — sometimes also of some stray dog or cat, welcomed in by that good Citizen to be warmed and fed from his ration. But this time, Hencher was alone.

“Citizen Schmeck, I greet you in the hour of our great victory!” he said, smiling with formality, honouring the triumph more than my arrival — not for lack of friendship, but from his single-minded devotion to the Homeland.

“Hurrah!” I replied, then, recalling the opposition, added: “Boo to the opposistion!” I laid the dish upon his desk, beside his notebook and piles of decrees, and noticed a black volume inscribed in a hand unknown: Catalogue of Injustices.

“Rightly done, in honour of victory,” he said, taking up his utensils. Such is Hencher: every joy must be merited, every triumph worthily celebrated. “Excellent citizens has our Republic,” he added — whether in gratitude for the meal, or as a wider truth, I could not say.