The Sharn Compact

They say nobody won the Last War, and that's certainly true in terms of outcome, but during the war itself, Sharn was definitely on the winning side. The city never saw any major action, as no power could effectively threaten them, but they did see a massive boost to their economy, as Cannith factories couldn't hire people fast enough to produce war material for the Brelish effort (and, secretly, the other powers too). The war produced a steady supply of refugees and displaced persons, a great many of whom made their way to Sharn, where they were sure to find acceptance and a decent wage, making more weapons to fuel the war that displaced them.

This somewhat perverse cycle led Sharn to a golden age, where it seemed nobody was poor or unemployed, and of course, the rich were really rich. It also greatly increased the diversity of the city, which had in the past been dominated by Brelish natives and races. There was a certain guilt for profiting off a war that caused so much destruction, while not suffering directly from it, but that was assuaged by a general pattern of aloofness. Sharn's people tended to adopt an attitude of distance, as if their superior ways and values were keeping them safe, and only foolish people would fight in such a war. In other words, it was their own fault for not living in an unassailable city a thousand miles from enemy borders.

When the war ended, there was a lot of uncertainty. Optimists hoped the factories could be retooled to make consumer goods, to fuel the inevitable rebuilding. And while weapons were suddenly in oversupply, there was always money in warforged. That is, until the Treaty of Thronehold. The day after treaty was signed, workers showed up to find their factories shuttered and under guard. Just like that, countless thousands were out of work. Most didn't get their final paychecks, and the courts of Sharn were all but deaf to their pleas, as behind the shell companies and "bankrupt" trading costers, House Cannith and their government buyers certainly had the spare change to offer them something.

Naturally, this produced rampant unemployment, which soon led to a huge population of homeless and starving people, which of course led to crime. While many were sympathetic to the workers' plight, others looked down on them, having been eager to profit from their work, but now labeling them as carpet-baggers, opportunists no better than thieves, often from enemy lands, who's ride on the "gravy train" had ended. Conveniently, of course, many were of "lesser races" and the city's fancy folk would prefer to see them all gone. Of course, nobody wanted to spare them the cash for a train ticket home, never mind that most didn't have a home to go back to.

To make matters even worse, being homeless and jobless were both illegal in Breland, according to outdated feudal laws meant for the nation's heartland villages and towns, not a modern metropolis like Sharn. So in addition to many of them being naturally forced into committing crimes just to stay alive, all of them were now criminals just for existing.

In practice, this just meant that the City Watch would eject them--usually violently--from neighborhoods fancy enough to warrant such protection. The previously under-developed districts that had rapidly built up cheap housing for the laborers became shantytowns and ghettos, where it was expected these "criminals" would remain, and tend to themselves. Law was nonexistent inside these enclaves, so the neighborhoods organized their own watches, but inevitably, they lost ground to gangs, who offered the only employment around.

The city was pushed to the brink of civil war. Some estimates--admittedly probably overeager--put the number of unemployed at over 100,000, with many thousands more underemployed and on the brink of homelessness. The city's population had swelled to over a million during the war, and having a tenth of them slide into crime was just too overwhelming. Of course, the conservative government reacted in the usual way, escalating violence, as if people could simply be beaten into complacently starving to death. The brutality made for some vivid imagery in the pages of the Chronicle, while doing absolutely nothing to assuage the fears of merchants and traders, tired of their goods being seized by massive, organized gangs.

People lost confidence in the government, and demanded change. The rising capabilities of the press, especially photographs and films, changed the game of oppression. Suddenly, the upper city folk couldn't just put the lower citizens out of mind. They saw their faces, they heard their voices. And while plenty remained cruelly unsympathetic, plenty more minds were changed. History will credit the Korranberg Chronicle for much of what would happen next.

The government was paralyzed by demonstrations. The city's railyards were ground to a standstill, the ports were blocked and the airship docks--even though they were still privately owned by House Orien--were occupied. Trade, the city's lifeblood, was halted, and it would die quickly without it. The Lord Mayor, a mostly incompetent shill, holed up in his estate under guard, offering no leadership. The Council convened to consider the demands of the people, which included:

These are just the demands they agreed to, although some pained them more than others. At first, they balked, offering insulting "compromises" that only incensed their opposition more. Thousands joined the protest, and a general strike went into effect as the city reached a tipping point where few jobs but the Watch were worth showing up to. Days passed, and the situation grew ever more tense, as the Watch fought a losing battle. The feudal nature of the city's defenses meant that their forces were diminishing; individual noble houses, trading costers, and even the King's forces were retreating to their own ground, abandoning the rest of the city.

The situation was resolved only when the King himself showed up, aboard his airship. He asked for permission to dock, only for the purpose of parley with the people. He asked for seventeen volunteers to represent the people at large, and they provided. Together, they marched to the Council chamber to confront the Council. The People's Seventeen stood on one side, the Council's seventeen members on the other, and the King in the middle. He made no decrees, save one: "the fate of Sharn shall be decided by Sharn, and its people. I will protect your city from outside foes, and I will provide the King's Justice to all my subjects. But you, the people of Sharn, have the right to determine your path forward."

With his mediation, they eventually came to an accord, known as the Sharn Compact. It didn't solve everyone's problems overnight, but it did release the tension, end the strike, and allow trade to flourish again. The King dismissed the Lord Mayor, and stayed on for some weeks to aid the transition.

The Sharn Compact

In 997 YK, the city signed its new constitution into law, with 34 signatories, and the King's blessing.

First and foremost, Sharn has affirmed its right to self-rule, so long as they do not run afoul of the King's Justice. No private property was taken from any noble houses, but their exclusive contracts were ended, and the market made free. Sharn is essentially an independent state within the nation of Breland--not unlike the tribal lands--and is allowed to make their own laws, which merge with but do not supercede the laws of the nation.

For example, on the matter of citizenship, it is still required that a Brelish citizen be not born to an enemy state, and must swear fealty to the King and either be noble-born or have a noble patron. But it is possible to be a citizen of Sharn without satisfying any of these requirements. Living in the city and holding a job for 5 years qualifies anyone--of any race--to be a full citizen of Sharn, and experience prior to the Compact counts.

Being a citizen means getting a vote. The Council still holds power, but it is not absolute. The Council now has 60 seats for lords--one for each of the 47 recognized noble houses of the city, and 13 for the Great Houses, and 1 seat for every 10,000 common people. At last census, that puts the council size at 113 commons and 60 lords. To preserve some integrity and tradition, there is now a High Council with 17 seats, but anyone in the council can be nominated to serve, confirmed by a general vote, with re-elections every 5 years, and 6 seats reserved for noble houses (derived from the ratio in the lower house).

Law enforcement has been entirely overhauled. Private armies are limited to a house guard of no more than 40, with power of arrest and homestead defense only within their private property and its immediate environment. This applies to all noble houses, knightly orders, and even the Great Houses. The city now has a municipal police force, independent from the military, reporting directly to the Council, with officers requiring only citizenship and good legal standing, not nobility. Many of the old City Watch, the Dark Lanterns, and other organizations have opted to transfer their allegiance, and the king issued a writ allowing a release of fealty.

The city's court system has been "equalized", with the same courts and laws applying to nobles and commoners. The nobles' right to judgment by peer is affirmed by the requirement that their trials must be by a jury, exclusively of other nobles, but the procedures of law are now standardized, overseen by magistrates, not lords. Many sentences for nobles, such as death or revocation of title cannot be pronounced by a magistrate, and in those cases, the King must give his word, on the recommendation of the court. In theory, this means equal justice for all, though in practice, few nobles are ever found guilty of anything, as long as they remain in the good graces of their peers.

On the economic side, the city has begun building its own municipal docks for both sea and airships. In advance of any competition, House Orien offered a deal to the city, to transfer the real property of their train station, railyards, and tracks in exchange for a reasonably hefty fee, with an agreement to allow them to continue operate the facilities for revenue service for 20 years. This deal doesn't prohibit new railyards from being built, but it would be highly impractical to compete, as their central station is already in the ideal position. To further cement the city's dependence on their station, they offered to build out a municipal light rail system, centered on the station, to connect all districts--even the lower ones--with a low-cost transit network.

Aftermath

In the 7 years since the Compact was signed, the city has eased into a new normal. Nobles are still rich and privileged--if ever so slightly less so--and there's still a lot of homelessness and poverty. Many jobs were created by the buildout of docks, rails, and even a new government center to house the much larger council, but not every worker was suited to those tasks, and they're mostly complete by now. The largest new employer has turned out to be the police themselves, who are still in high demand due to crime rates, with over 5,000 officers and thousands of other staff, barely keeping up with the worst of the crime.

While crime did improve notably in the initial aftermath of the Compact, as optimism and charitable fervor eased the suffering of the lower city, unfortunately the gangs did not yield power easily. And, democracy being what it is, the new system has empowered the city to change its laws more frequently, according to trends and whims of the people, which clever actors have learned how to manipulate. Disdain for criminals and fear of crime is highly motivating, and it's easy to pin the blame on the vices of society. A temperance movement has swept through the people and the Council, and the laissez-faire attitude of the past has been abandoned. While common vices like alcohol remain available (despite much protestation by the hardliners), dangerous drugs, poisons, magical enhancements, and many weapons have been limited or outright banned.

Predictably, this hasn't hindered anyone's ability to acquire them. Instead, it's driven up their price, and those who stand to profit from their sale use every ounce of their political and economic influence to keep their drugs illegal. The gangs have become far more powerful, given a much better source of income. Gone are the days of lower city gangs stealing grain shipments from the docks to feed the hungry; now they take on smuggled drugs from pre-arranged shipments and distribute them to street dealers. With more money, they can afford more weapons, more bribes, more thugs, etc. Those less willing to deal in the hard stuff have been replaced by brutal opportunists who are more willing. The gangs have changed and reformed, hardening into a scourge of organized, well-armed crime syndicates.

A few of the old factories were bought and repurposed, a few more were demolished, with promises of redevelopment mostly unfulfilled. Many more lay abandoned, serving as ad-hoc homeless shelters or convenient warehouses for contraband distribution by the gangs. The new unemployment benefits--meager as they are--are also diminishing over time, and many of those who lost their jobs 8 years ago never found another legitimate one. Prostitution and petty crime still abound, but as ever, they mostly flourish within the ghettos. The police don't (usually) punish lower city residents for merely existing outside their districts, but they're much more likely to prosecute petty crimes outside of them. It's easier for a thief to steal from his poor neighbor than from a well-defended rich man.

The Chronicle continues to try to shine light on the darkness, but the public's ear has been deafened by the noise. A crooked councilmember? Yesterday's news. Noble found in a den of sin? Who cares. The Sharn Inquistive, ever the filthiest rag, prefers the smutty stories, appealing to the prurient interest. It's easier to care about a councilman caught in bed with a hooker when there's a bawdy picture of her, in full color. The Chronicle takes the high road, and as such, is declining in popularity. The abhorrent has become apathetic, the raucous routine, and outrage is outdated. The city's renaissance ended almost as swiftly as it began, and everyone is in denial.