A tense silence filled Aurelia's central hall as the delegation was received. Even the splendor of the chamber, with its gold-inlaid marble floor, seemed somehow faded. Alto sat in the city leader's chair, facing the head of the delegation.
The man introduced himself as Bartolomeo. He was a dignified figure in the prime of his life, yet his eyes were clouded with deep exhaustion, and his mouth was set in a firm line beneath his neatly tended beard. “Young leader of Aurelia, please forgive this unexpected visit. We face a crisis that allows us not a moment's delay. We have come here grasping at our last hope.” Bartolomeo's voice was low and heavy.
“Lord Bartolomeo, to see a man of your standing so troubled… What has happened in Grand Metropolis?” Alto did his best to keep his voice calm.
Bartolomeo lowered his eyes for a moment, then began to speak, his face drawn with anguish. “A depression. …But unlike any depression in history. Our city is now being destroyed by its own abundance.” “By its abundance…?” Bartolomeo nodded weakly at Alto's question.
His account was almost impossible to believe. Over the past few years, farming techniques and industrial production in Grand Metropolis had advanced by leaps and bounds. The weather had been kind. The fields yielded far more grain than was needed, and the workshops produced goods in unprecedented quantities. The city overflowed with things. Everyone should have prospered. But reality had proved otherwise.
“There is simply too much,” Bartolomeo said. “Bread is piled high in the markets. Warehouses are stacked to the rafters with cloth. Iron bars lie exposed to the elements at the harbor. Yet no one buys them. …No. No one can afford to.” Supply had far outstripped demand, and prices had collapsed across the market. Bakers could not earn enough from their bread even to pay for the flour; in tears, they threw freshly baked loaves into the river. Farmers burned their fields with the crops still standing, because every harvest meant a greater loss. Artisans closed their workshops, and laborers lost their jobs.
“There are goods in the city, yet the people are starving. There are clothes, yet they shiver in the cold. It is a nightmare. Money no longer circulates. The economy is utterly dead. People sit listlessly atop mountains of products that have lost their value.” As if the sight had returned to him, Bartolomeo clenched his fists.
“What we need is purchasing power. A spark to set the wealth frozen in our markets moving again. And so… we have decided to place our final hope in your city, Aurelia.” He bowed deeply. So desperate was his plea that even his imposing frame seemed to shrink. “My lord, please buy our goods and our crops. Buy them with the gold that wells up endlessly in your city. Grain, cloth, iron—everything we have. Please, purchase them with your gold.”
The hall fell utterly still. Alto could hear the elders behind him draw in their breath. Sell gold and buy goods: that was Aurelia's way of life. Yet what the delegation now sought seemed the very reverse of that order. They were asking the city to exchange its lifeblood, its gold, for vast quantities of supplies whose use was far from certain. Aurelia had neither warehouses large enough to store so much nor a population capable of consuming it all. The goods would simply lie in useless heaps upon its land.
And yet Alto could not look away from the despair in Bartolomeo's eyes. If Grand Metropolis collapsed, Aurelia would lose its greatest buyer of gold. That would mean the city's slow death. This was not merely a neighbor's problem. Aurelia's own survival was at stake. “…I understand. But this is not a decision I can make alone. Please allow me time to bring the matter before the city council.” Knowing the weight of the decision before him, Alto could manage no more than that.