Assembly Chamber
Assembly of the Union
Nuvrenon, Tavaris
11:34PM Tavari Standard Time (UTC -7:30)
Saturday, May 9th, 2020
Once, before the exile, the legislature of the Tavari was made of chiefs. There had been over a thousand by the time of the Civil War, each the chief of their own tribe. After the exile, there were only nine chiefs that remained loyal, and while 1,161 had been unwieldy, nine people was far too small for a legislature. There had been many different systems of Tavari government since the exile, many different constitutions, that had generally tended to become more democratic as time went on. Once, only men with property could vote. Then, any man. Then, women, too, could vote. Last year, they had expanded the voting age to include 17-year-olds. But always, across all that time, there had always still been ten thrones in the room where the people’s representatives met to deliberate. One each for the nine chiefs, and one for the King of the Tavari. On formal occasions, perhaps one of these thrones might have been occupied. But never - never once since the exile - had all ten been filled during an actual, working session of the legislature.
His Elect Majesty Sukaran, Chief of Chiefs and King of the Tavari, was the 49th person to serve in his office, and he was the first in 521 years to exercise the traditional right to join the deliberations of what had once been the Chiefs, and was today called the Assembly of the Union. He brought the Chiefs with him, the nine people who held hereditary titles in direct descent of the people who had led the Tavari in the exile to the east. Officially, neither the King nor the Chiefs had a role in governance. The Chiefs had long ago ceded the power to govern their chiefdoms, which were today more often called provinces. The King did not even have a rubber-stamp power to grant assent to laws, nor was he even legally the Head of State. He accepted the credentials of foreign ambassadors explicitly in the name and with the permission of the Premier, primarily because the Premiers had always preferred not to waste time doing it. But regardless, they did have chairs in the Assembly chamber, and today, they were using them.
The Chief, and the Chief of Chiefs, sat silently and watched the proceedings. They had no right to speak, because they had not been elected to be there, but they watched, dressed in traditional robes. The debate was in its thirteenth hour, and the 385 members of the Assembly were all tired, were all hot, and were all exhausted. But the Chiefs still remained.
“Mr. Speaker, this body has been considering just one question for thirteen hours now.” Tanu Brona, an Assemblyman from Good Harbor, rose from his chair to speak. “I think, and I know many others here think, that every possible word that can be said about this topic has been said. I hereby move to close the period of debate.” Calls of “Second!” came from every corner of the chamber.
The Speaker of the Assembly, who had hours ago taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie, nodded his head. “All in favor?”
AYE, said many representatives in a collective roar.
“All opposed?”
“Nay,” said a much quieter roar.
“The ayes have it,” said the Speaker. “Debate on this question has closed. The question before this Assembly is the ratification of the Agreement Between Bana, New Rania, and the Tavari Union Signed at Good Harbor on May 7th, 2020, otherwise known as the Good Harbor Agreement.”
“Mr. Speaker.” Shano Tuvria stood. “I hereby move to ratify the Good Harbor Agreement.”
“Second,” called several people in the chamber.
“Under the rules of order of this body, a motion to ratify a treaty shall be a voice vote unless there be any objections,” the Speaker said.
“I object!” Tanu Brona stood again, quickly. Unlike many of his colleagues, his jacket and his tie were still on and still crisp, despite the fact that he had loudly and forcefully opposed the treaty with every ounce of his energy. It was his one last fuck you to its supporters - they would have to sit as the name of every single member of the Assembly was called. There were audible groans. Shano Tuvria was silent, as stone-faced as the Chiefs.
“Ms. Aban?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Adris?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Ashnda?”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Bandru?”
“Aye.”
The Speaker fell into a cadence as he called out the names. Each person answered him in the same tone - deep, powerful, and laden with gravitas. It was easily the most important vote any of them had ever been part of.
The Congress of Bana had ratified the agreement on Friday. In New Rania, the National Council did not legally need to ratify treaties. Both had already scheduled a referendum. Only Tavaris had spent this long deliberating. On the one side, Tanu Brona and his supporters pounded their desks and shouted that the agreement would spell the end of the Tavari Union. It would make them a minority in their own country, tie two anchors around the legs of the Tavari economy, and burden the economy and the people with an extra layer of government bureaucracy. On the other side, the Premier and his supporters pounded their desks that this would empower Tavaris like never before, make its economy more powerful and more able to compete globally, and grant Tavaris a seat at the international table.
“Mr. Gonu?”
“Nay.”
“Ms. Han?”
“Nay.”
“Ms. Indo?”
“Aye.”
Really, the question would be decided by the people. Shano didn’t know why they hadn’t just voted to approve it and let the people do all the deliberating. But that would have been too easy, and people like Tanu Brona - sure to be his opponent in the next election - wanted to make sure they got their bloviating in. There weren’t really any good opinion polls out yet, and no one knew how the vote would turn out. If it failed, it would certainly be the end of Shano Tuvria’s career. But if it passed, it would only make Tanu Brona angrier, and Shano would have to hear him bloviate even more. Neither prospect thrilled him, but he wasn’t doing this for his career or his comfort. He was doing it for his country.
“Mr. Kontra?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Kopris?”
“Nay.”
The clock on the wall could almost have been moving backward. Shano wasn’t the only one watching it either - just about everyone was. It was reaching closer and closer to midnight, and no one could say how much longer it would take to read all the names. 385 was on the smaller side of national legislatures, but everyone in the room wished it was smaller.
Shano looked over at Tanu, who appeared to be smiling. Clearly he thought the vote was going his way. He very well may have been actually counting, he was that kind of a nerd about politics. He was the worst kind of politician. He treated politics like a game. Like a sport, that he could win. He was probably already imagining hoisting a trophy over his head.
“Ms. Mana?”
“Nay.”
“Ms. Mintra?”
“Nay.”
Tanu was smiling even more broadly now - Lina Mana was a deputy whip in Shano’s party. He had turned at least one cloak. Shano didn’t have any room inside him to feel nervous, or bitter, or angry. He didn’t have room for any emotion at all. All he had inside him was hope. He decided not to look at Tanu anymore and kept his eyes locked on the clock. 11:45. 11:47. 11:50.
“Ms. Tunat?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Tuvria?”
“Aye,” he said automatically, still keeping his eyes locked on the clock.
They stood at a crossroads. Or rather, to borrow the metaphor the King had used, they stood upon the precipice of history. They could turn back around and retreat to safety and comfort, if they wanted. That was what Tanu wanted. Safe, familiar comfort. Shano was asking them to jump off the cliff into uncertain waters. Uncertainty led to discomfort. Discomfort led to fear. But if they managed to swim, they would end up on richer shores than any of them had ever dreamed. They just had to get there. They just had to get there.
“Mr. Zani?”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Zendris?”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Zol of Good Harbor North?”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Zol of Nuvrenon South?”
“Nay.”
“Ms. Zuven?”
“Aye.”
That was the final name. Three hundred and eighty four names had been called, and for despite all the time it had taken to call all the names, somehow it felt as if the time to tally them was taking longer. The Speaker was looking down at his podium, checking over the notes he had kept while calling. The clock said it was 11:57.
“The votes in favor are one-hundred and ninety two,” the Speaker announced. One short of a majority, and a whoop of cheers and jeering broke out upon the Assembly, led most loudly by Tanu Brona. He had won. They had won. They didn’t even listen to the Speaker say that “the votes against are one-hundred and ninety two.”
At 11:58, the Speaker called for order. At 11:58:30, he called again, and smacked his gavel down several times. “Order! Order! There is a tie! I declare this Assembly is evenly divided!” The whoops died down, probably because Tanu Brona wanted to hear the final nail in the coffin. The clerk would ask the Speaker, who normally did not vote, if he would like to cast a tie-breaking vote. And, as tradition dictated, the non-partisan speaker would vote in favor of maintaining the status quo. He would vote no.
At 11:59:10, the clerk leaned into his mic and asked “Mr. Speaker, would you like to cast the tie-breaking vote?”
At 11:59:12, the Speaker leaned into his mic and said “According to tradition, my office votes only in a tie, and then only to preserve the status quo. It is a tradition that has been maintained for hundreds of years, and it is a tradition that today, I am proud…” Shano was about to zone out, but then the Speaker dropped a bomb on the Assembly. “I am proud to break. This treaty calls for final approval in a vote of the people in referendum. I choose to err not on the side of the status quo, but the side of democracy. Mr. Clerk, my vote is Aye.” He slammed his gavel down at 11:59:50. “The motion passes,” he declared.
Tanu Brona, with a red-face and a bulging vein on his temple, was bellowing “OUT OF ORDER! OUT OF ORDER! THIS IS NOT VALID, THIS IS AGAINST THE PROCEDURE! OUT OF ORDER! YOU WILL RECOGNIZE ME AND YOU WILL DECLARE YOURSELF OUT OF ORDER!” But the Speaker did not listen, because he knew that Tanu was wrong. No one was listening to Tanu, because everyone was looking at the King. He had stood up, as had the Chiefs, and begun to applaud. Slowly, Tanu’s shouting died down. The jeers and even the cheers died down. Instead, everyone began to applaud. They stood, as the King stood, and applauded. There were smiles. There were tears.
It was a victory for democracy, Shano knew. Tanu and his ilk were wrong. Politics wasn’t a game to win. Governance was a service to the people, and today, the people won because they would have the chance to decide. It wasn’t Shano’s victory, it wasn’t the King’s. It was the people’s. Shano was clapping along with the others. It was a beautiful sound, a triumphant sound. He knew that these were good people, and the people of Tavaris were good people, and that he was ready to jump off the precipice of history hand-in-hand with all of them.