Family Legacy

A companion story to "A Collection of Scars"

Thuban Muran’s upper lip curled at the taste of the wine. Not caring whether anybody noticed or not, he dumped it on the floor, eliciting appalled looks from some of the nearby guests. He didn’t bother hiding his disgust as he scanned the room for a slave or server to take his glass. 

His vineyard’s wine should have supplied this event. That was why he was visiting Kelab; he had to show these southerners what true quality was. 

Everybody at these events was selling one thing or another to each other, whether it was a literal product or something more abstract: their reputation, a partnership or token of friendship, a favour. That was all fine if everyone had something worth selling, which wasn’t the case. Many of the masters were whiny, self-indulgent brats who hadn’t worked a real day in their life. 

Thuban’s father had prepared him his whole life to take over the vineyard, to make the Muran family name even more prominent and respected. He had learned about every aspect of running the vineyard from growing good grapes to conducting good business. He worked for every ora in his pocket and invested them back into the vineyard. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

An elderly man wearing a trimmed white beard and looking smart in his red shirt and long vest stood next to Thuban. “I’m Yezi.”

“Master Thuban,” he replied with a nod. 

The corner of Yezi’s mouth twitched. “Are you from the city?”

“No, I’m here on business. Spreading the word about my brand of wine.”

“Ah, where does your vineyard lie?”

A slave walked by and Thuban handed his empty glass to him. “My family estate is called Vaha. It’s just east of the town of Kirash. We’re north of here.”

“Yes, I know the area well,” Yezi replied. “My home is north of there.”

Not a southerner. That was too bad. But a customer was a customer. 

“Master Thuban,” the aging man said with a strange emphasis on the word ‘master.’ “Who grows your crop?”

Thuban furrowed his brow in confusion. “We grow our own crop.”

“I mean who works between the rows out in the sun? Who are your labourers?”

Thuban didn’t know where this man stood when it came to the slavery question. The Slavery Act of Harasa was a relatively new document and the Murans had been among the first families to take advantage of it. But everything about slavery was legal, and it was an effective way to discourage people from committing acts of crime. It wasn’t all that different from sending criminals to prison, only now, through the slavery act, criminals could contribute to the economy. 

“My labourers come to me through the Slavery Act,” Thuban finally answered. 

Yezi’s lips pursed together into a thin line. “Things can change so quickly, can’t they? The Slavery Act isn’t even a year old and it’s embedding itself deeply into our society, so much so that soon people will be unable to fathom how we can prosper without it.” He looked deeply into Thuban’s eyes. “But we did. And we can again.”

“That’s rather political conversation,” Thuban said coldly. 

“We were allowed to have political discourse before the new regime, too. Things change so quickly.”

“And some people can’t let go of the past,” Thuban replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” He wasn’t going to be able to sell anything to this man. 

Thuban walked away from Yezi, without bothering to formally say goodbye, in search of a new prospect. 

He had heard stories, but had yet to meet anyone from the upper class who was apprehensive about using the Slavery Act to attain labourers. Thuban had also heard rumours that anyone who openly spoke out against the act was punished by President Althu. Soon enough, Thuban knew, all the upper houses would be using slaves, whether they liked it or not. 

A man and woman dressed in clothing that was more fitted than the billowing styles of Harasan fashion walked into the party, followed by a teenage boy. Their appearance made Thuban smile with sincerity for the first time that night. 

“Master Karis! Master Ajara!” 

The family turned to the sound of Thuban’s voice and, upon seeing him, smiled. The man clapped his hand onto Thuban’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you here!”

“I didn’t know you were coming all the way to Kelab,” Thuban said. 

“It was quite the journey, but Ajara’s mother isn’t well, so we’ve come to see her for a while.”

Thuban turned to the woman. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope your mother recovers.”

“Thank you, Thuban,” Ajara replied. Her voice was gentle. She looked more tired than usual.

“Is Naris here, Master Thuban?” asked the teenage boy. 

“I’m sorry, boy,” Thuban said, “I’m afraid I left my wife and son back at Vaha. But you’re more than welcome to stop there and stay with us whenever you’re heading back home.”

The boy nodded politely. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

Thuban liked the boy. Kejal was his name. He was a few years older than his son Naris, but when the two of them met as children, they had instantly liked each other. Despite a journey of several days separating the two families’ estates, the boys constantly pestered their parents about visiting each other. Their friendship had rendered their parents friends as well, albeit not quite as close as the boys. 

“Does business bring you down here?” asked Karis. 

“Yes.” Thuban adjusted his vest to be sure it sat squarely on his shoulders. “I’m trying to find some new clients. But I find I don’t have the same tastes as people here.”

“I can introduce you to some family friends,” said Ajara. “As long as they think my parents wish it, I can get you a meeting.”

Thuban’s pride made him want to reject the offer, but instead he said, “That’s very generous of you. I hope it’s not an imposition.”

Ajara placed her hand on Thuban’s arm. “It is not.” She sounded a bit like she was softly scolding him. “We’re family friends, too, you know.”

“She might ask for a favour in return!” Karis said with a boisterous laugh. 

With chuckles rippling among them, Ajara led the way to introduce Thuban to potential clients. 

---

The evening turned out to be rather successful, much thanks to Ajara. Thuban had an appointment the following day to bring samples to one potential client, and another said they were interested in traveling to see the vineyard. 

Thuban said his goodbyes to the family and reminded them to stop by his estate on their way home. He left the party and hired a carriage. 

“I’ll get you to your hotel as quick as possible, Master,” the driver said as Thuban climbed into the carriage. “There’s a big protest tonight and some of the streets are blocked.”

Thuban’s only reply was a low hum of disapproval. 

The driver closed the carriage door and walked around to the front seat. Thuban opened the small curtain so he could see outside. The carriage rolled away from the party. 

The houses they passed were large and well-kept. Some of the people who lived here also had an estate outside of the city. For others, this was their only dwelling. 

They made a wide turn. A street was scattered with people walking. Some held signs, others carried lanterns. 

“Did we just turn around?” Thuban called to the driver. 

“Yes, Master. We can’t get through that street. I’ll try another route.”

Thuban’s patience was waning. The lower class was just as bad as the upper; they wanted to dodge the consequences of being a burden on society. And they were wasting his time in the process. 

Guards turned them around at two other streets. Thuban finally told the driver to stop the carriage. 

“I’ll just walk,” he grumbled as he climbed down. 

“Master, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said the driver. “One side or the other gets pretty agitated.”

“I’m agitated!” Thuban snapped. “I’m agitated that I can’t get to my hotel in a decent amount of time.” He shoved a few ora coins into the driver’s hand. “Goodnight,” he huffed, then started down the street towards the growing noise. 

The houses weren’t so fine in this area of the city. They were smaller, windows were broken out in some, doors hanging off hinges. Some looked abandoned. 

The darkness of night was broken up by lantern-light bobbing down the streets. People were talking excitedly to each other as they moved closer to the heart of the protest. 

He could have found a way around the protest, Thuban knew. But he was already impatient to get back to the hotel, and he wanted to show these people that he would not be bullied by them. He had just as much right to walk these streets as them, perhaps more. 

Thuban stepped out into a large square that was packed with bodies and blared with noise. It was as if he had walked into a wall of anger. It knocked him off balance for a moment. His heart quickened. 

With bodies quickly filing behind him into the square, there was nowhere to go but through. Thuban pushed between shoulders, disregarding the confused and hostile looks he received. 

A chant was growing in volume. 

“Free the people! Free the people!”

Their fists shook upwards like a choreographed dance. The energy in the air was only growing and growing. Thuban wondered when and how it would explode. 

He could see the exit he needed. It was just a few metres away. 

Mounted Guards emerged from the exits of the square, their horses whinnying and blowing through their lips. One horse reared up onto its hind legs, eliciting shouts of surprise from a few of the protesters nearby. 

This was good. The Guards would break up the protest, and Thuban would be back at his hotel shortly. 

But the arrival of the Guards seemed to only energize the protesters. Those near the exits of the square turned their attention to the Guards and continued their chant with more intensity. 

“Get back!” yelled a Guard. “Stay back!”

Some of the protesters at one exit were edging closer. The horses shifted backwards, uneasy. 

A Guard removed a pistol from its holster and pointed it to the crowd. “Stay back!”

The protesters were inching forward. One man finally broke away and stepped between the mounted Guard and the crowd. “Don’t antagonize them!” he shouted. He didn’t notice the Guard moving his gun so it was aimed at him.

“We’re not doing anything wrong!” someone else called out.

“That’s right,” the man replied. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Before Thuban could find out how or if either side would break the thin peace between them, a gunshot went off across the square, followed by screams and cries of outrage. That outrage rippled through the protesters. At the nearest exit, Thuban felt the crowd push forward.  The horses whinnied more. The Guard wielding the gun glared down at them, his eyes wild. 

Thuban pushed harder through the crowd. He wasn’t safe here among the protesters. Hard as he pushed, however, he didn’t make much progress. Everyone was fighting with each other, their attention turned in opposite directions. Some people wanted to leave just like him, and some wanted to stand their ground. Some were looking for a fight. 

More gunshots. More screaming. The unified chant had dispelled to a chaotic din. Thuban was slowly making progress to the nearest exit. 

Someone broke from the crowd, ran at the armed Guard, and grabbed his leg. He was tugging hard, trying to pull him from the horse, when the Guard turned his gun on the man and fired. 

Pandemonium broke out in their corner of the square. All the Guards had unholstered their pistols. Any order among them had disappeared and turned into panicked survival. 

From across the square, more gunshots cut through the throng. The Guards nearest Thuban let some of their own shots fly. A couple had their pistols pointed to the sky, but one Guard was still aiming at the crowd. Thuban couldn’t see whether anybody had been hit. 

Everybody was pushing against each other more aggressively, now. Thuban fought to keep upright, pushing back against anybody that threatened his balance. Throughout the square, people were stumbling to the ground and not getting back up. 

“Guard!” he shouted. “Guard!” He needed them to know he wasn’t a protester. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

He might as well have been whispering for the chaos of noise that filled the square. 

Several people started running past the Guards and their mounts, making their escape down the street. One of the Guards shot after the runners. A body fell. 

Thuban didn’t think it was possible, but the panic and rage in their corner of the square rose higher still as more people tried to run past the Guards, attack them, or push backwards deeper into the square. He fought against the barrage of bodies. 

The next time he looked up at the Guards, he saw something that made his breath catch in his throat and his limbs lock up in terror. 

A pistol was pointed in his direction. 

He tried to run, but all Thuban could do was inch forward as much as the crowd would let him. “Move! Move!” he shouted. 

He flinched at the roar of the gunshot. His arm burned with pain. For just a second, space next to him opened up as the person behind him fell before the crowd swallowed up the open spot. 

Thuban’s left hand instinctively clasped his right arm. That was enough. He wanted out. Now. 

With renewed determination, Thuban shoved through the crowd. He elbowed ribs, he stomped on feet, he shoved faces, anything to clear a path. 

Once he was near the edge of the crowd, he considered telling the Guards he was a master and to let him through, but they were volatile, and would likely shoot first and ask questions later. No, he had to do something else. 

He pressed his body against the building at the corner of the square and the intersecting street to stay out of view of the Guards. They couldn’t shoot him here. 

Not expecting anything to come of it, Thuban tried the door. It was, unsurprisingly, locked. A thought struck him. He pressed his face to the paneled window. It was dark inside. 

With his good arm, Thuban elbowed the glass pane closest to the door handle so it broke, shards tumbling to the ground, one or two small pieces embedding themselves into his sleeve and pricking his skin. The sound of the glass breaking was drowned out by the pandemonium happening in the square. 

Thuban carefully threaded his arm through the broken window and fumbled with the door lock. He quickly figured out it was a simple latch, pushed it upright, and loosened the door. 

He tried to sneak inside without anybody seeing. He didn’t need a mob of people on his tail attracting the attention of the Guards. 

Once inside the darkened building, the volume of the square was only mildly quieter, but Thuban instantly breathed a sigh of relief at being one step closer to safety. 

He was in a general store. Items ranging from jarred food to clothing to travel canteens scattered the room. 

There came a bump from the floor above. It was possible the owner of the shop lived upstairs. Thuban moved quickly. He brushed the glass from his left sleeve, wincing at the pain in his right arm as he strode to the back of the building. On the other side of a curtain hanging over a doorway was was a storage room, and at the back of that was an exterior door. 

The noise of the square swelled, and Thuban knew someone else had entered the shop at the front door. Not wanting any company, he threw open the back door and ran outside. 

He was in an alley so thin, only two people, standing shoulder to shoulder, could fit across. To his right, he could see the street. A handful of people ran past. A gunshot rang out. 

Thuban ran left, deeper into the alley. 

He had just hit an intersection that opened up into a larger alley when he heard voices emerge from the shop. He watched them turn right to the closest street exit. They stopped at the end of the alley, however. 

“Turn around!” someone cried. “Go, go, go!”

They scrambled, but a Guard yelled for them to stop. 

Thuban turned and went into the larger alley and, within a minute, emerged onto a street. There was just one other couple nearby, but the chaos of the protest could still be heard clearly. Thuban ran. 

---

The healer Thuban hired before going home to Vaha told him his bullet graze would heal just fine, although potentially scar. That irked Thuban. The scar would be a constant reminder of the ridiculousness of the lower class. And of his stupidity for putting himself in danger. 

Weeks later, in the heat of summer, Thuban was standing on the back patio of his palace at Vaha, wearing a sleeveless tunic. Behind him stood a low table with six different bottles of wines on it. Each bottle was a variation of the same flavour combination. 

His son, Naris, was walking down one of the rows of the vineyard. Not walking, sauntering. 

Naris was twelve. No longer just a boy. Not quite a man. Thuban had much to teach him still. But Naris wasn’t very receptive to his lessons. He clung to childhood, spending most of his time at the treehouse at the edge of the vineyard. When Thuban spoke to him, he was either cowering with an alarmed stare or letting his gaze and attention drift; more than once, Thuban had told the boy he might as well have been talking to a wall. Surely, Thuban hadn’t been so much trouble for his own father. 

When Naris noticed his father’s presence on the patio, his pace slowed for just a moment, almost as if he was thinking of turning back. 

“Father,” he said as he came up the patio steps. 

“Son.”

Naris’ eyes lingered on Thuban’s right arm as he walked past. 

That evening, Thuban called Naris to his personal games room. 

“You wanted to see me?” the boy asked, peering into the room. 

“Yes, come all the way in,” Thuban said, impatiently. He hated seeing his son moving like a child about to be scolded. “You noticed my scar earlier.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And you’re curious about it.”

Naris nodded. 

Thuban went to the low cabinet at the side of the room and poured a glass of wine. He handed it to Naris. “Take a seat. You’d better start getting to know our product.”

The boy dumbly sat down in a large plush chair and tentatively took a sip of the wine. His face twisted after he swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. Thuban bit his tongue. The boy would grow to appreciate it over time. 

“You know that there are informal classes in Harasa,” Thuban began, slowly pacing the room while his son looked on.

“Yes.”

“We are part of the upper class. This does not necessarily make us better than anybody else. What does make us better is our contribution to society.”

Naris looked puzzled, but he kept silent as he waited for further explanation. Good.

“The lower class currently opposes the Slavery Act,” Thuban continued. “But the Slavery Act ensures that everyone helps hold up our country. It weeds out those who try to take advantage of others’ work ethic. It gives purpose to those who wander. And anybody protesting against the greater good of our economy and of our country is in favour of bowing down to laziness, weakness, and poverty.”

Thuban removed his light jacket to reveal his new scar. “I was walking back to my hotel when a protest turned into a full-blown riot. People were attacking the Guards. Of course, they had to retaliate. I got caught in the line of fire.”

Naris’ eyes widened with realization. “You mean, that’s from a gun?”

“Yes, Naris. This is the danger opponents of the Slavery Act pose. This is what happens when we let the indolent and lazy take advantage of us.”

Thuban replaced his jacket over his shoulders. Naris, as if he had been hypnotized by the gunshot wound, shook his head. 

“You must promise me you will work hard,” Thuban said, “to maintain what this family has built, to make a contribution to society, to stay on the good side of our president.”

Naris’ eyes furrowed. “Are we in trouble?”

“No, Son.” Thuban’s voice was low with gravity. “And we must keep it that way. You’ve been keeping up your lessons?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. You must work hard. For your family.”

“Yes, Father.” 

Thuban nodded at his son. “You may go, now.” Naris stood, set his still full glass of wine on the cabinet at the side of the room, and left. Thuban sat for a while longer, pondering what might come out of the protests. 

All he wished was for his family to remain in the president’s favour, and for his son to be ready to carry on the family legacy when the time came.