Battle Ground (The Dresden Files #17) - Jim Butcher Page 0,163
And we brought our troubles to their home.”
An uneasy ripple went through some of those in the circle: Vadderung, Mab, Evanna, and Sarissa all stirred uneasily.
Lara and Marcone took careful note of that.
“Choices have consequences that ripple out in all directions,” I said quietly. “And our choices have hurt the people of this city. We can’t possibly scramble to minimize the consequences to our lives without acknowledging the debt we have incurred by inflicting our conflict upon them.”
I met Marcone’s eyes. “Our world isn’t supposed to cross with theirs, for the most part. And in return, they mostly ignore us. Now you say that the mortals are going to be sending eyes and ears in. Well, maybe it’d be smart for them to see some things.”
“What do you suggest?” Marcone asked.
“The Accorded nations provide humanitarian aid and assistance,” I said.
That got a reaction from everyone, from Vadderung’s eyebrow lift to Evanna’s incredulous sputter.
“I’m not saying make open diplomatic contact,” I said. “I’m saying we act. We help. Indirectly, in secret. If they’re looking, they’ll see what you’re doing. Let them see us do what we can to balance the scales. Ethniu’s attack changed everything. It was too big, too loud. They’ve seen us. And we’d better show them from the get-go that we aren’t trying to murder them all. Because we made a bad first impression. And because it’s smart. And because it’s right.” I met Marcone’s eyes. “I called, and men and women of this city answered. They followed me. They fought. And I felt them die.”
Something flickered in Marcone’s face.
His chin moved in the faintest vertical tilt of acknowledgment.
I dropped my voice to something that was just between me and Marcone. “We owe them more than just washing our hands of the mess. And you’re going to make a fortune rebuilding things anyway.”
Marcone’s eyes flickered with amusement, acknowledging the truth of my point.
“The Accords,” he said, carefully, “are not a charitable organization.”
“Nor are we beggars, unable to pay our debts,” Mab answered. “My Knight makes a fine point: Our fight did them harm. They had to choose to shed their blood in defense. Innocents were slain. Value lost. Specifics can be argued, but the direction of the debt is clear.” Her head swiveled to me. “What recompense do you recommend?”
“The money stuff, they’ve got insurance and things for. There are economic safety nets everywhere. It’s the people we need to take care of. Anyone injured in the attack, we pay for it. Whatever they need, healing of the body or mind. We pay to bury the dead. And we pay a weregild to the survivors of anyone slain. I don’t care if they find buried gold or get a mysterious winning lottery ticket or what, but we owe them a debt for something priceless. And we owe them the gesture of helping to make their future more secure after what we took from them. And there’s a man in this room who can get down everyone’s freaking chimneys every year if he has to, so don’t tell me that there isn’t power to make it happen.”
“These numbers are very large,” Mab noted.
“Our debt,” I said, “is larger. Ask any child of the men and women who died.”
Mab looked faintly troubled at the thought.
“The Accords,” she said, “provide for reparations to damaged parties. This business of guest-right disturbs me greatly and demands care and respect. Making right the damages wrought upon the mortals seems meet to me—with the understanding that we will apply the resources expended for such repayment to the debt of those ultimately responsible, namely, the Fomor, once our conflict with them has been resolved.”
And it turned out that by unanimous vote, everyone in the Accords agreed on that, because everyone in politics enjoys giving other people’s money to good causes.
Whatever. I got people some help, did a little good.
But I wasn’t finished.
“There is also the matter,” I said, to Mab, “of personal debt. Ethniu was my kill, before all the Accorded nations, in defense of the demesne of Baron John Marcone of Chicago.” I turned to face him. “Acknowledgment of that act is due.”
Eyes turned toward Marcone.
“The Eye seems ample reward for such a deed,” Marcone noted.
“To some,” Sarissa said, her voice very dry.
“Do you have it?” I asked Marcone innocently.
He stood there, suddenly very wary.
“I mean, I’m not sure where it is,” I said, which was technically true—Alfred had it stashed somewhere and I’d told him not to tell me where, specifically for this conversation.