Ellen Kushner
Ellen Kushner is an American writer of fantasy novels.
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“The trouble with you,” the Ugly Girl said, “is that you think you know just what everyone should do, don’t you?”
The Mad Duke smiled at her. His face was bright and sharp, smooth and glittering. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”
“And what,” she said, “if you’re wrong?”
“And what,” he said, “if I’m not?”
In a city where most of the wealth is controlled by a small few, certain things are overlooked, particularly when it comes to the assertion of privilege.
“You founded the place. Why don’t you want to go?”
“I don’t like children,” the duke replied.
“Then why put out all that money to preserve them?”
“Because it is wrong to let them die.”
I’m the Duke of Riverside. I build things here and pretty much keep the peace, and discourage certain behaviors. If you think all that has been achieved through entirely civil and lawful means, you’ve had your head in a bucket.
“I heard it clearly, and so did everyone else, I’ll be bound. Your name, dear, not mine. I am very popular. You, it seems, are not.”
“What a surprise.” He dropped petals on the floor. “And what a good thing I don’t care.”
“How nice for you that you don’t have to.”
“Meaning,” he drawled, “that you do.”
“Just so.”
“Tell me about the city, then.”
The master shrugged. “It’s crowded. It smells. There are lots of things to buy.”
Honest change? Honest? Has someone altered the definition of the word while my back was turned, or have you recently developed a sense of humor?
“Abjuring love? Real people don’t do that. Now you’re the one who sounds like someone on a stage. That’s not the real world. Real people follow their hearts, wherever it takes them. Real people refuse to be put into a little tiny box. You can say you love me or you don’t love me, it doesn’t matter; I know you have foresworn nothing except an existence you found intolerable.”
She really did smile this time. “Now you’re making me sound like a heroine. Be honest, Lucius. For all that you go on about the real world with its real people, you don’t really want to live in it, either.”
“In real life, my sweet poet,” the duke said as the swordsmen circled, “words can never be undone.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I did. But I am preparing,” the duke said, “to revise that opinion. Stop playing and tell me what you want.”
“And you’ll give it to me?”
“What do you think? If it’s reasonable, I’ll consider it. If it’s not, I have the resources to annoy you very much as you’ve been annoying me. It’s true I have more scruples—but I’m willing to suspend them. I also have more money, you see—lots more money. I wasn’t planning to waste any of it on you, but I could be convinced to change my mind.”
He felt the almost sexual thrill of being the one in the room with all the power.
Our theories stand. We both see clearly; we know what’s right. Even if it’s not always possible to act on it, don’t you think it matters to be able to call things by their true names?
Is this politics? I suppose I am going to have to learn all about it, if I am to run Lord Ferris’s household, and throw parties and all. Now...explain to me again just who hates who, and why?
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