A World on Fire (IC, See OOC)

[The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile]

XXX.V.MDCCLXV
30 May 1765

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Kejserlig slottet
Stockholm, Sweden

Indented sections written by Pasong Tirad

Karl XIV

Emperor of Sweden

It was a rare and much appreciated day of sun in Stockholm. The gardens of the Imperial Palace clogged with raucous nobles and their tittering sycophants, modeling the latest fashions of the realm. Although Karl had no aversion to sunlight, his distaste for excess was made plain by his withdrawal into the compound's throne room, where he allowed no inferiors save the unspeaking doorwards. The doorwards and Conway, that was.

The Irishman had been granted his audience, and now stood before the Emperor as a criminal pleading his own case against a heartless judge.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I wish I were coming to your magnificent Empire in better times. Unfortunately, that is not the case, for I have been appointed by my King John as minister plenipotentiary for the express purpose of asking – no, begging you for aid.

“Our kingdom is in great peril, your Imperial Majesty. The Catholic kingdoms of Leinster and Connacht, and the Anglican kingdom of Munster conspire to bring down the peace and stability that has endured in Ireland for the past fifty years.

“We have been threatened with invasion by England, if their king is not crowned the High King of Ireland, and we have reason to believe that the kingdoms of Connacht and Leinster are conspiring with the Holy Roman Empire and with the Kingdom of Brittany, respectively.

“Furthermore, a nation we believed to be our friend, the French, have stated plainly that they will aid no kingdom.

“And so, we come to you, your Imperial Majesty, with but a single plea: Help us take the High Kingship, by force if necessary. Ireland is a small island, and no one kingdom has a significant army. Even the smallest Swedish regiments, we feel, will have no problem trampling through the kingdoms of Munster, Leinster and Connacht.

“And in return, we offer you our nomination for the High Kingship. With several decisive military victories, no kingdom would dare say no to you or a member of your royal family becoming the next High King of the Rebel Isle.”

Although he did not appear outwardly to hearken to Henry Conway’s carefully chosen words, Karl absorbed each intently. In fact, the Emperor gave every appearance of paying the Irishman no mind, examining his fingernails or gazing out of the palace’s high windows as Conway spoke. There was a long pause after Ulster’s plenipotentiary finished his introductions, and Karl continued to avert his eyes from him.

At last, when the silence became nearly unbearable for the Irishman, Karl spoke, still not affording the man a glance.

“We express Our sincerest condolences to the good Protestant people of Ulster,” he said calmly, “but are afraid that Swedish intervention in their affairs is a distant prospect.” Without further explanation, Karl relaxed further into his comfortable throne. For one, brief moment, his blue eyes flashed upward, and he regarded Conway, eager to see if he would give up or persevere.

It took all of Conway’s power to hide the expression of disappointment that, for a brief moment, flickered through his face. He was a military man, and hiding his emotions from his peers was second nature to him – but Emperor Karl was not that. He was not a war-weary captain or a disgruntled lieutenant. He was the one of the most powerful men in Europe, and Conway could say nothing in reply.

But Conway did not leave the room. He let the silence linger as his thoughts whirred, thinking of new ways to try and argue his way out of regaining the upper hand.

When the silence became just as unbearable as the last, Conway spoke again, his voice shaking a little at the prospect of trying to argue with an emperor.

“With all due respect, your Imperial Majesty, I hope you are not overestimating how effortless it would be for a Swedish army to invade and occupy Ireland.

“The kingdoms of Munster, Leinster and Connacht combined will not be able to muster more than 1,000 regulars each, and each kingdom’s militias and conscripts will number no more than four to five times that amount. Save for fighting amongst themselves and suppressing revolts from disgruntled peasants, the island has not had any real conflict since the previous century.

“A single regiment of your greenest musketeers would take Dublin in a heartbeat. A single brigade of your most inexperienced dragoons and lancers would be able to ride through the entirety of the Rebel Isle in a week. From Belfast to Cork.

“If the Good Lord had sought it fit to grant me powers of divining events that are to happen, I could almost confidently assure your Imperial Majesty that, with a decently-sized and properly supplied force, good terrain and capable leadership, your rule would be all but guaranteed.

“And so, I must ask your Imperial Majesty, with the utmost humility and deference to your unmatched knowledge, is there a chance that His Imperial Majesty may reconsider their position?”

At the mention of war, of militia and regulars, of dragoons and musketeers, of terrain and supply, Karl’s head shot up, and his eyes fixed on Conway with startling intensity. There could be no doubt now that he was intrigued by Ulster’s proposition.

“Your confidence must be genuine, Mr. Conway,” Karl said, “for you would surely never lie to Us. Tell Us, Mr. Conway, if a single brigade could conquer Éire in but a week, what could be accomplished by a Swedish army of, say, 10,000 men?”

There was no Lord High Chancellor at Karl’s side to dissuade him from rash action. It was a dangerous moment for Sweden, but perhaps a stroke of good fortune for Ireland.

Conway’s jaw dropped. An army of 10,000 men would be a force that nobody in Ireland would have ever seen in their lifetimes – not since the Confederate wars in the previous century. Peasant revolts and the occasional religious conflicts barely even contain a thousand combatants.

“Ten thousand? Your Imperial Majesty, I… such a force would be unheard of…” He was flustering. He noticed this and tried to correct himself, but he knew it was too late. The imaginary offer of a 10,000-strong army to help support Ulsterian claims to the High Kingship would be a fantastic boon.

“Your Imperial Majesty, we are going through a difficult winter, as you may well know, so provisioning a force of 10,000 soldiers would be very difficult. But, if supply were not a problem, an army of 10,000 men would be catastrophic for any opposing force. It would be more than enough to conquer and hold Dublin, Galway and Cork all at the same time, and it would definitely be enough to strong-arm the three other kingdoms into submitting to your rule.”

Karl smiled slightly, amused by Conway's shocked reaction. "Perhaps you are right, Mr. Conway. We certainly wouldn't want Our soldiers to scare the enemy into submission before all of the fun is over. In any case, the winter is cold and Our ministers miserly, so We expect a number half that size could be allocated to your Kingdom." And in return, the High Kingship of the Emerald Isle. But to whom should Sweden award these spoils? The most reasonable options were to either claim the title for himself or award it to one of his kinsmen— after all, what would be the point in Swedish intervention if a Swede were not crowned High King?

It was a difficult question, one best resolved in council with his ministers and at a point when the outcome of the conflict was already decided— because, for all their talk, it was probable that nothing would ever come of this.

"Mr. Conway," Karl continued, "We shall discuss the matter further with Our ministers before making any official promises... But know that We are interested in Ulster. Very interested."

---

Your Imperial Majesty,

It is my honor and privilege to report to You my glorious success upon the field of battle! I wish only that You were present to relish in the glory of victory, though of course I understand that Your weariless talents are required in the Fatherland.

In my campaign I have given no quarter unto our Red enemy, for he has given none unto us. In my march from Fort Rehnskiöld to the relief of Fort Karl Your soldiers destroyed no fewer than fifty Skræling encampments with torch and sword under my orders. The enemy was mangled at Fort Karl, some three thousand of them slain in all, and their chief settlement was razed shortly afterward. Thenceforth the raiding bands scouring Gustavia's cities have been markedly fewer.

As I write to You I am prosecuting the war from my new headquarters in the midst of Skræling territory. I wish to humbly suggest a course of action to Your Imperial Majesty.

The natives of this land are more barbaric and cruel than any to ever set foot in Europe. They have proved time and time again to be untrustworthy allies, indiscriminate killers, and irredeemable sinners. They are immune to the most zealous of our missionaries and uninterested in any aspect of civilization other than its destruction. Theirs is a foul race, at whose eradication every man, woman, and child in New Sweden would rejoice. I implore you, sire, to consider this option. It would be most easily done.

The Iroquois are already a broken people whose defeat is an inevitability. It would be elementary to shepherd the survivors of this conflict westward and away from our lands, where they might sow discord in rival colonies, such as Breton Pernamboug, rather than Your own.
Should Your Imperial Majesty be interested, I can provide further specifics as to my designs upon the Iroquois League.

Your servant,
Hjalmar Harkönen
Commander-in-Chief of the Carolinas

[Reverend Norv]

The French Commonwealth

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Chancellerie de la République
Paris
Commonwealth of France
June 1, 1765

Indented paragraphs by Pasong Tirad.

There were only two Irishmen visiting the Conciergerie, that fateful day in June, and Joseph Beaulieu knew that the conversation that he must now have was best held in private. So he received Fortescue and Rochfort not in one of the conference rooms of the ancient fortress on the Ile de la Cité, but instead in his personal office in the Conciergerie’s northeast tower. Joseph Beaulieu's office was far from the gilded, frescoed chamber that a man of his rank would occupy in most European powers. It was, instead, a simple whitewashed chamber. Ghurid rugs warmed the flagstone floors, and oil paintings - mostly cityscapes of foreign capitals - adorned the walls. Piles of papers and books overflowed the plain hardwood desk and the bookshelves that lined most of the walls. The diamond-pane glass windows overlooked the Seine, and outside those windows, the sprawling metropolis of Paris extended to the horizon.

When the two Irishmen entered, Joseph Beaulieu rose to greet them. He was a tall man of about fifty-five, clad in the plain black suit of the Calvinist bourgeoisie. His thick grey hair was combed back from a high forehead, and there was a knowing, amused intelligence in his green eyes. At his shoulder waited Étienne de MacMahon: a younger man - though still a few years older than Rochfort - with the pink complexion of his Irish ancestors. He was handsome, in a somewhat petulant-looking way. Mostly, though, he looked nervous: MacMahon had been recalled from Dublin to answer for his covert diplomacy, and Beaulieu had made it very clear that MacMahon’s career rested on whether he could parlay his audacity into a success. If he could not, he would be lucky if the only thing he lost was his job.

Now, Beaulieu courteously gestured the Irish diplomats toward the two chairs facing his desk. “Messieurs Fortescue and Rochfort, I presume.” Beaulieu pronounced both names in the French fashion. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee, tea, wine, brandy?”

George Rochfort, still a very young man at twenty-six, was about to answer in the affirmative for some brandy or wine when James Fortescue, an eight-year veteran of the General Assembly, as well as having had some diplomatic experience in London, gave him a stern look as they both sat down.

Their appearances could not be more different. There sat Joseph Beaulieu, one of the most powerful men in one of the most powerful nations in the world, and his clothing could not have distinguished him in a crowd. Meanwhile, Fortescue was wearing a bright blue coat and similarly colored breeches, while Rochfort had an elegant green suit made for the occasion. They were mistakenly under the impression that the elegance of their fashion might have some kind of effect on the evening’s discussions.

Furthermore, for Fortescue, the irony of the situation made him pleasantly amused – here he was, the descendant of French exiles, sitting in front of a descendant of Irish exiles.

“Some tea wouldn’t hurt, your Excellency, thank you,” said Fortescue, who was painfully aware of the bead of sweat trickling down the left side of his forehead. Additionally, he was not amused by the fact that Rochfort seems to have trouble keeping his head straight – the young man seemed to be busy taking in the fact that very few intricate accessories lined the walls of Beaulieu's office. His eyes seemed to be glued to a painting of what looked like London.

Beaulieu rang a little bell on his desk, and exchanged a few polite words of French with the young man who appeared at his office door in response. In another minute, the secretary reappeared with a pewter tray on which sat a tea set of Chinese porcelain, containing freshly brewed Darjeeling: both luxuries that were far more expensive outside of France, since the Commonwealth’s favored status among Breton traders gave in a first option on most Chinese imports to Europe.

MacMahon poured for the group. As he did so, Beaulieu spoke to Fortescue. “Monsieur de MacMahon informs me that the situation in Ireland is - comment dit-on - volatile. It has been my observation that such moments contain the potential for great achievement as well as great danger.” He took a sip of tea. “I hope you will be forthright with us about how this Commonwealth can help.”

And at that, Fortescue froze for a brief moment – the directness with which Beaulieu spoke was not something he was used to. There should have been more traditional pleasantries and casual chatter before the subject could be even approached – but not so in the Commonwealth, it seems.

“Consul MacMahon’s assessment of the Confederation’s current affairs is not inaccurate, your Excellency,” answered Fortescue in his clearly accented French, taking a sip of the fine tea and basking for a brief moment in its wonderful taste and aroma. He even forgot for a split-second that Rochfort sipped his own tea a bit too loudly for polite company, and the man’s attention had moved on to another oil painting, this time of a landscape that Fortescue could not identify.

“As you and Consul MacMahon may know, the English have given the Confederation an ultimatum. By March of the next year, we must submit to either the King of England or a member of his royal house the high kingship of Ireland. We are, to put it kindly, divided on this issue, as we have been for the past fifty and one years.”

Fortescue stayed silent for long enough to register that both Beaulieu and MacMahon were able to understand him properly, even if it required a bit more focus on their part due to his accented French. He was also able to notice that Rochfort finally had their undivided attention, even if Fortescue knew that the young man only had a very elementary skill in the French language. But he was not saying anything that he and Rochfort had not talked about and rehearsed endlessly on the way to Paris.

“His Excellency, Charles Lucas, our prime minister, has tried to look for a peaceful solution to – forgive the crassness – the English threat, but has found none. No man of noble heritage, Irish, English, Scottish, Welsh or otherwise, could be found that can unite the four kingdoms. This unity, His Excellency had hoped, could be enough to repel any potential English invasion.

“This is what has brought us to Paris, your Excellency. After we received information –” he glanced quickly at MacMahon as he said this – “that has led us to believe that the four kingdoms are attempting to gain favor with other European powers in an attempt to put more weight behind their chosen claimant’s candidacy.

“We have heard rumors that the kingdom of Connacht may try to use the funeral of the late Holy Roman Emperor to try and get a deal out of the new Lord of Bohemia. We’ve also heard from… less than reputable sources… that one of the king of Leinster’s sons is in Brest with a diplomatic delegation, attempting to create their own kind of alliance. And our informants believe this may have a good chance of succeeding due to a flourishing romance between the queen and the prince.

“And we know for a fact,” Fortescue began, his gaze landing directly at MacMahon for several seconds before returning to Beaulieu, “that your Excellency has made it clear that King John of Ulster will only be able to receive French aid if he were to renounce his crown.” Fortescue froze for a moment, as he knew that the words he needed to say in this next part had to be perfect, or his whole reason for being in Paris could end in a fortnight.

“We cannot presume to know what you would ask of us in return for this, but here is what we would like to ask of the Commonwealth. Put together, there are fewer than five thousand regular soldiers in all of Ireland. With conscripts and militias, that number can swell to several tens of thousands, but such a force would be lacking in musket and shot, it would be ill-provisioned and it would lack the discipline of a modern army. Any experienced European force, such as that of France, would be able to take the field with little worry.

“As minister plenipotentiary of the General Assembly of the Irish Confederation, we in our utmost humility are pleading with your great nation to send us military aid. Any candidate His Excellency Charles Lucas might be able to find for the High Kingship will inevitably be unsuitable to the four kingdoms if that lord’s candidacy is not backed up with might. In return for this, we are prepared to offer any Frenchman of your Commonwealth’s choosing the High Kingship. Such a person would be a unifying force for the Confederation, and would solidify French and Irish relations for ages. Under a French High King trade would bloom, Irish culture would finally be allowed to flourish, and the great wealth of Ireland’s bountiful fields and livestock would flow into the Commonwealth.”

Beaulieu and MacMahon listened quietly. Only the mention of the Leinsterian delegation to Brest elicited a reaction from Beaulieu: one of his eyebrows quirked, and he frowned slightly. But when Fortescue finished speaking, the French foreign minister sighed. “Ah,” he said. “I understand. Ah.” Beaulieu’s tone was weary, disappointed; MacMahon looked distinctly anxious.

“Your offer is more than generous,” Beaulieu replied sadly, “but alas, I cannot accept. The - information - that you have received about this government’s response to King John is accurate.” Beaulieu glanced at MacMahon, and then back to Fortescue. “But I fear that you may have misunderstood its import.”

“This Commonwealth is founded upon godly and republican principles, monsieur.” Beaulieu leaned forward across his desk, his tone unusually earnest. “We did not decline to support John because we hoped to place the crown of Ireland upon a French head instead of his own. We declined to support him because any temporal power can be exercised only pursuant to the law of God, before whom we all stand equal in our sin. The unchecked power of crowns, and the vanity of those who wear them, are likewise blasphemy.” The foreign minister shook his head. “I would not condemn any son of France to the damnation of a throne. Much less would I sacrifice the lives of godly men to such a cause. I know that I speak for Chancellor Maturin in this matter, as well.”

MacMahon, with the desperation of a man watching his career combust before his eyes, looked from Fortescue to Rochfort and back. He cleared his throat. “Messieurs, the General Assembly has shown remarkable initiative in the last few months, have you not? You have sought to place a candidate of your own choosing upon the throne of Ireland - backed up by the threat of force - in the very teeth of royal opposition - and in defiance of England’s command that you choose a Hanoverian. You have a vision of the future: a Confederation unified, prosperous, safe, and wise.” MacMahon’s voice was taut. “You are already the government of Ireland, messieurs - whatever your titles may claim. You are the only men in Ireland with the energy and initiative and vision to lead it. And yours is a government that I believe this Commonwealth could support and defend with a clear conscience.” MacMahon spread his hands. “What need is there of some crowned Frenchman as window-dressing? Is there not a better way forward for all of us?”

Rochfort’s confusion was clear as day. He could tell from the disappointed tone in Beaulieu’s voice and the desperation in MacMahon’s own that something had gone amiss. He looked to Fortescue for some kind of answer, but could find none, as his gaze was fixed intently on the two Frenchmen opposite them.

When at last MacMahon finished speaking, Fortescue filled Rochfort in on what had happened – in English.

“Messieurs,” began Fortescue, slowly, as he was not sure what to say next. As minister plenipotentiary, he was concerned, firstly, with keeping the anger boiling in his chest from rising.

“Messieurs,” he said once more, composing himself only a little, “when the Confederation was conceived of in the throes of war over a century ago, the First Confederates understood that the four corners of Ireland could only be kept from slaughtering one another in petty tribal conflicts with the help of a unifying force, and that was the High Kingship. That throne that has remained vacant for decades, this is true, and the General Assembly has taken over much of the governance of the realm, but we could not have kept the peace in Ireland if it were not for the idea of the high kingship. This has kept the Catholic men of Connacht from ripping apart their Anglican neighbors in Munster. It has kept the barons of southern Ulster and northern Leinster from raiding each other’s farmsteads until there was nothing left between them but the carcasses of the stolen cattle.

“The idea that we would not have a high king nor any men chosen by God to be born of noble birth? No High King for all to look up to as the shining symbol of the Confederation? No king to unite the people under their own kingdoms? No princes for whom to praise when they are brought up in just and righteous manners? And no barons – for whom many rely on for good, honest work – to directly look after the people and their homes? No, messieurs, no Irishman could even dream of such an event occurring.”

And at this point, he paused, looked to Rochfort, and relayed everything he had just said in English.

“As you spoke, Monsieur Beaulieu,” Fortescue began, after relaying the recent information to his colleague. “I am reminded of the fanaticism that drove my ancestors across the sea to Ireland, to live as exiles due to their faith in God and His Church in Rome. This meeting has proven to me that my family’s opinion of the Commonwealth is, in fact, correct, and its republican principles are a stain upon the divine right of the Irish kings to rule as strong, just and righteous monarchs and for these monarchs to be united under God through a high king.”

He stood up, his anger boiling so close to the chest that he could barely contain himself. “I would apologize, messieurs, but I do believe my time as minister plenipotentiary in France has come to an end.” With that, he made his way to the door, only to stop as he grasped the handle when Rochfort did not get up and follow him.

“George, what are you doing?” he asked, in English.

George turned around in his seat, his eyes brimming with a look of excitement that Fortescue did not understand. “What if there’s another way?”

“What?” Fortescue answered, incredulous. “There is no other way, Rochfort, you heard them yourself.”

“Yes, I know but-”

“Your father’s an earl, George! Do you know what they’ll do to him when they finally establish their republic in Westmeath?”

“Oh, you’re useless,” said George, fully forgetting his place now, and knowing fully well that many nobles in the early days of the French Commonwealth were able to retain much of their wealth. He turned back to Beaulieu and MacMahon, whose expressions were unreadable due to what they had just witnessed, and left Fortescue, still by the door, with a shocked look on his face.

“Begging your pardon, your Excellency, sir,” he said to both the foreign minister and the consul in his Dublin English. “He meant nothing by it, but I think there’s a way we can come to an agreement.

“You see, sirs, I’m a student of history, and upon understanding our history, we are reminded that this moment, today, is the freest and most peaceful Ireland has ever been in its history. We have won this liberty for ourselves with a heavy, heavy price. Our only desire is to not remind the country of the chaos that killed our First Confederates, and the near-ceaseless wars that ravaged our country for half a century. And the best way to maintain this peace, to keep our people happy and prosperous, is to keep our kings and to unify them with a High King. Your Excellency, I’m sure you and the Consul here will agree that our desire to keep our people away from the savageness of war is just.

“Lord Consul sir, your Excellency, sir, what if we could convene at a later date to discuss the merits of republicanism? Ireland could potentially erupt into a civil war with four contenders all vying for the high kingship – a Republican General Assembly would not be seen as a unifying force, but nothing more than another contender in the brewing massacre.

“But, what if we were to unite the General Assembly under the message that we bring with us the greatest army in all of Europe, and with it a great opportunity for king, baron, minister and merchant alike? With the help of the gravely misunderstood Commonwealth, we, all good, Godly men of Ireland, could, after the end of the conflict, choose for ourselves what our future should truly look like – and while we choose, let it be known that no man, king or Englishman, will have a voice stronger than any other’s.

“If the merits of republicanism truly are better than, uh, as you say, the uncontrollable might of kings, then surely, when the space is given for these ideas to flourish, more would come to accept them? Surely, if the people learn the truth of how the common man has flourished under the Commonwealth, many will consider choosing that mode of governance rather than maintaining the four monarchies?”

By the end of his speech, he looked to MacMahon, who might have to translate everything he just said. But Rochfort was done. His heart was still hammering away at both fear and excitement, and his forehead was glistening with sweat despite the chill of the Conciergerie's old stone.

“What say you, your Excellency?”

Joseph Bealieu, having silently observed Fortescue’s eruption with a smirk of dry bemusement, inclined his head slightly to listen as MacMahon translated Rochfort’s proposal into hushed, rapid French. Then he sighed and spoke in halting, heavily accented English.

“Your désire to save your people from war, this is just, monsieur.” Beaulieu shook his head. “But French soldiers fight for la Réforme, monsieur. You promise the possibility of reform only. Should I send French sons and husbands to go and die for the possibility only?”

MacMahon leaned toward Beaulieu. “If the Irish people are given God’s grace,” he said quietly in French, “then they must choose liberty when it is offered to them, must they not?” The young man raised his brows. “And is not the mere possibility of grace well worth dying for? If the hope of salvation is not worth risking everything, then what else could be?”

For a long, pregnant moment, Beaulieu said nothing. His gaze moved between the two Irishmen, and came finally, for a long moment, to rest on Rochfort. Finally, he nodded. “Well,” the minister remarked in French, “war does reward young men, does it not? By the time this is all over, Ireland’s leaders may have a very different cast.” Beaulieu glanced at MacMahon. “And you, monsieur, should be careful. Talk enough about dying for God’s grace, and someone might actually ask you to do it.”

With that unsettling remark, Beaulieu looked up, to where Fortescue still stood poised in the office door. “Monsieur le ministre, I believe your young friend has devised an answer to our dilemma.” Beaulieu unfurled his fingers toward the chair that Fortescue had vacated, and waited for the Irishman to resume his seat before he continued.

“Here, then, is the agreement that I can offer.” As Beaulieu spoke, MacMahon leaned toward Rochfort and began to translate into English: a professional courtesy that Rochfort had not previously warranted. “We will require of you a resolution, voted on and ratified by the General Assembly, to the effect that when the Assembly’s authority over all of Ireland is secure, there will be a public debate on the question of Ireland’s future governance. Republican government will be among the options presented, and the debate will include all estates of society. Its results will be definitive and binding.”

“In return for that resolution, this government will present to the Parlement a bill creating the French Army in Ireland.” Beaulieu glanced down at one of the papers on his desk. “It will have a starting strength of six thousand: four regiments of foot, one of horse, and one of artillery. The maximum strength, as and when events require reinforcement, will be twice that. The same bill will create the French Military Mission in Ireland: some two hundred French officers who will be assigned to train the General Assembly’s forces, and who will be supplied with the muskets, cannon, uniforms, and other materiel necessary to create for you a modern army. I have been authorized by Chancellor Maturin to make these assurances in return for what I consider to be a fair deal. I believe we now have one.”

Beaulieu fell silent; so too, after a moment, did MacMahon, his translation complete. Then the foreign minister stood, and reached across the desk to offer his hand to Fortescue. “This agreement will secure the peace and unity of Ireland, and may yet open the door to its liberty. Do we have terms, monsieur?”

Fortescue was fuming at the dishonorable way Rochfort supplanted his authority, but he was also elated at the idea of being able to return to Dublin with a preliminary agreement – and he was terrified at the thought of fighting the General Assembly over allowing just the mere mention of republican governance to be discussed at the next high assembly.

He gripped the arm rests of his chair perhaps a little too tightly, as Beaulieu, MacMahon and Rochfort all looked at him with eagerness, awaiting his inevitable acceptance. Only his pride kept them waiting – but it could not keep away the inevitable for long, and at last Fortescue stood up from his chair, and with a deep sigh, gripped the foreign minister’s waiting hand.

“Know this, Monsieur,” Fortescue began in a firm and slightly threatening tone, which elicited surprisingly similar tired reactions from MacMahon and Rochfort, “that, upon our victory in Ireland, I will be among the strongest defenders of the divine right of our kings and high king to rule.”

Fortescue released Beaulieu’s hand. “Before you shower your consul here with praises for possibly bringing la Réforme to Ireland’s shores, I suspect he will be needed back in Ireland for the coming months. Plenty of ministers to meet and plenty of deals to be struck to make sure this agreement of our can make its way through the General Assembly, and I have no doubt that the endless prosperity of the Commonwealth may be able to make more people agreeable to our cause.”

“The hardest part will be getting our new agreement through the General Assembly,” said Rochfort in English, evidently not being able to follow along, but understanding enough that his ears picked up upon hearing the French translation for the Confederation’s parliament.

“The Good Lord only knows how we will be able to get this arrangement through the House of Lords, but I believe we can manage, sirs. It’s the Assembly that frightens me. All those terrible factions. Makes me shudder just to think about it.”

“I believe we are done here,” said Fortescue, after giving both Beaulieu and MacMahon the courtesy of waiting until the consul translated what Rochfort said. The two Irishmen bowed, and Fortescue unceremoniously turned his back, opened the door and left without another word. The young Rochfort quickly apologized for the conduct of the minister plenipotentiary before following his master out of the office.

In the silence that followed their departure, the two Frenchmen sat quietly. After a moment, Beaulieu took two glasses and a dusty bottle of Calvados from the bottom drawer of his desk. Without a word, he poured, and then clinked his glass with MacMahon’s.

The younger man grinned. “I -”

“If you ever leak diplomatic correspondence without authorization again,” Beaulieu said flatly, “I will reassign you to a trading post three hundred miles up the Gambia River and keep you there until you die of malaria.” He drank down half his brandy.

MacMahon’s grin faded only a little. “Understood, monsieur le ministre.”

“This time, though, I am sending you back to Dublin.” Beaulieu finished his brandy and tucked the glass away. “With a line of credit to the Banque de France for fifty thousand écus. Buy loyalty of whomever happens to be selling. We will need their votes now; God willing, we will need them again after we win, to banish the crowns and thrones from Ireland for good.” Beaulieu cracked his knuckles. “In the meantime, the Chancellor and I will draft the bill creating the French Army in Ireland and the French Military Mission. Bernat will stand up the troops required on provisional authority, so they will be ready too. As soon as the General Assembly passes its resolution, we will be prepared to hold up our end of the bargain.”

MacMahon nodded and stood, his youthful face flushed with enthusiasm and excitement and Calvados. “I will make sure the General Assembly moves quickly.” He paused, and then abruptly clicked his heels together and cried: “Vive la Réforme!”

Joseph Beaulieu snorted: contemptuous and affectionate. But he could not quite keep the smile off his face. “Oh,” he muttered, “just get out.”

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Chancellerie de la République
Paris
Commonwealth of France
June 2, 1765

Indented paragraphs by Dragos Bee.

It was ten days’ journey by coach from Marseille to Paris, along the old Roman road by way of Lyon and Dijon; the ancient stones had been carefully maintained and replaced by the Commonwealth, and the journey was easier on Barnabas’ old bones than would otherwise be expected.

Before his departure, the Marseille provincial government had treated him to dinner, and then sent on a rider to Paris to warn of Barnabas’ coming. They talked among themselves, these French administrators: wondering why on earth the Byzantines had not simply given this task to their embassy in Paris, like every other civilized nation. Why had Constantinople sent this old man across the Mediterranean, without warning or proper credentials, to land on the Marseille docks and start demanding of strangers to speak to the most powerful man in France? “He’s lucky we didn’t just throw him in the madhouse,” the provincial treasurer muttered to his wife over dessert.

Now, Barnabas’ coach clattered into Paris: a sprawling city, slightly larger than Constantinople but far less ancient. The banks of the Seine were cluttered with the new French manufactories: low stone buildings encroaching the river, with dozens of waterwheels steadily turning to drive the machinery within. Around them, working-class residences - timber buildings three or four stories high - were densely packed in. As the coach approached the center of the city, those basic structures were gradually replaced by whitewashed stone homes, their undecorated facades a testament to Calvinist aesthetic restraint. Soberly-dressed bourgeois men and women enjoyed the fact that the weather had finally begun to warm: they sat at outdoor cafes, and sipped small glasses of red wine or cups of tea imported from Brittany, and read the newspaper.

The Conciergerie itself - the administrative center of the French Commonwealth and workplace of the Chancellor and his ministers - was a medieval fortress on the Île de la Cité. Upon Barnabas’ arrival, a butler in plain Calvinist black - ironically indistinguishable from what the government’s most powerful ministers wore - offered the Greek a choice of coffee, tea, wine, or brandy. After a few moments, a French officer in the long brown canvas greatcoat of his profession arrived, and he escorted Barnabas up a flight of stairs to a meeting chamber.

The room was spartan: hardwood floors, whitewashed walls, windows of clear diamond-pane glass. The walls were adorned by a single cross of polished wood and by several maps: of France, Europe, the world. At a central walnut table, strewn with papers and letters, sat four men: all in their forties or fifties, all dressed in plain suits of black or brown or grey, all with unfashionably short hair in various stages of greying. They were Paul-Henri Maturin, Joseph Beaulieu, Bernat Lefèvre, and Jean Perrault: the Chancellor of the Commonwealth and his most senior ministers.

“Monsieur Kapodistrias,” Maturin said. He stood to greet the ambassador - a sign of respect - but his tone was cold. “I am told that you presented yourself on the Marseille docks without warning last week, demanding to meet me. Eh bien: here you are. I hope you will not begrudge me if I likewise dispense with all ordinary diplomatic protocol, and ask what business brings you here that could not have been handled by your embassy through the normal channels.”

The ambassador was suitably blunt in his response, saying, “I’m to replace the Embassy’s formal ambassador and fire a few personnel once I deliver my message - There is reason to believe they’ve been compromised.”

By who or what he didn’t say. “As for said message, we’ve heard stirrings of a new European War, started by some fracas in the Irish Confederation, and we want in. On your side, preferably. The… Leadership of the Empire wishes to finally end the threat that the Patriarch of Rome and his ‘protectors’ have posed for countless generations, and hopes that mutual enmity will be enough to get the Commonwealth to join the struggle.”

Bernat Lefèvre snorted. Joseph Beaulieu, more diplomatic, merely smirked. “I believe I speak for all of us, monsieur, when I say that we sincerely hope and believe that no general European war is in the offing.” Beaulieu waved a hand. “The Irish are - working out for themselves their own salvation, shall we say. With fear and trembling. But there is no reason why that should necessarily plunge the rest of the Continent into flames.”

“That said,” Paul-Henri Maturin noted, “we are certainly not opposed to some sort of joint action against the Antichrist in Rome.” He took his seat, crossing his ankle across one knee. “But I am surprised to hear you propose such an - alignment, monsieur.” Maturin picked up one of the papers on the tabletop, and read from it. “‘They hate, they see God as a wanton hater, they see all but them as forsaken before they were born!’” Maturin crooked an eyebrow. “You come to us proposing an alliance based on little more than a common religious enemy, Monsieur Kapodistrias, but it is clear that many in your government see this Commonwealth as a religious enemy in its own right. You will forgive me for asking: how can we trust your word?”

Kapodistrias had a reply ready, “You can trust my word because I expressly came here, alone, to show that I am not a partisan of the Anti-Calvinist factions within my government, and neither are the ones who still pull the levers of said government. The Pro-Commonwealth party has sacrificed a lot, including potential credibility with their own voters, to bring this proposal for you, along with shiploads of grain for your nation. Our… Head of State himself has vetoed any moves to further print and distribute the offensive tracts, in order to make the joint action against the ‘Vaticanites’ a reality.”

A pause, “In short, we have ourselves made our own sacrifices and paid our own costs to ensure that any enmity between our nations stays theoretical. Is that a good enough answer?”

Beaulieu smirked again, this time at Barnabas’ diplomatic avoidance of the word “Emperor.” Maturin frowned. “I trust you do not suggest, monsieur, that this Commonwealth’s favor can be bought, notwithstanding its principles, for a few ships’ worth of grain.”

“Though that - gift - will be welcome in Algeria,” Jean Perrault noted. “It should tide over Algiers until the year’s second crop can be planted.”

“Quand même.” Maturin cocked his head and studied Barnabas for a long moment. Then he sighed, and nodded wearily. “Very well,” the chancellor finally said. “Here is what I will propose.”

“We have no desire to disturb the peace of Europe.” At this, Joseph Beaulieu nodded firmly, and Maturin continued. “But we do wish to convey to the new Emperor in Prague that any action against the Reform would be most unwise. As young Victor is now the foremost defender of Antichrist in Europe, that would serve both our purposes.”

“So: I would be willing to submit to the Parlement a treaty of mutual defense.” Maturin shook his head. “This Commonwealth will not be bound to any offensive war you may undertake, monsieur. Our troops will not die in some desert far from home for the sake of a golden crown and a golden throne in Constantinople.” Contempt dripped from Maturin’s tone at the mention of those totems of royalty. “But we will stand by you should your troops suffer attack, with all the considerable force at our disposal. And you will stand by us, should the powers of Rome - or Prague, or Stockholm - seek to shed French blood.”

“Either here,” Bernat Lefèvre added, “or in Ireland.” That caveat hung in the air for a moment, pregnant with meaning.

“In return for this,” Maturin continued, “we would expect two things: two tokens of our nations’ friendship. Jean?”

“Preferential access to your markets,” said Jean Perrault bluntly. “An end to all taxes on imports from France. There are thousands of textile mills and steel furnaces in this country, and there are more than twenty million souls in the Byzantine Empire. We would very much like to sell all of them cooking pots and broadcloth. And we would very much like you to tax into bankruptcy anyone else who tries to do so.”

“And an apology for this drivel.” Maturin waved the anti-Calvinist pamphlet in the air. “Or I can assure you that the Parlement will never vote to bind France to an empire that has so recently and so gravely insulted the very Word of God.”

“In return for that,” Joseph Beaulieu said quietly, “every foe on Earth will know that to stand against Byzantium is to stand against the Commonwealth of France, and an army that once fought alone against every other power in Europe and beat them all. And if conflict between Reform and Antichrist becomes unavoidable, then we will be proud to stand beside you, and break the power of Rome once and for all.”

“Those are our terms, monsieur,” Maturin concluded. He inclined his head. “What do you say?”

A smile from Kapodistrias as he responded, “The apologies have already been given to the Calvinist population in the Balkan Empire, the foremost victims of the indiscretion and mistakes of some of our people. More can be given and distributed at need. As for the economic aspects of your proposed treaty…”

He trailed off, “We manufacture much of our own tools, pots, and broadcloth, although we admit that we cannot supply our growing population forever. However, one should note that our current ‘supplementary’ suppliers of those goods are the United Balkan Kingdom and its growing population of Calvinists, who will be impoverished as well if subjected to those terms, and our brothers in Russia, which has also fostered military ties with you and has counted on your friendship. Nevertheless, we hold no love for their current competitors in Italy and Bohemia, while the Iberians sell other goods to us. Therefore, if Russia and the United Balkans are exempted from the increased taxes you demand, then we will gladly accept.”

Bernat Lefèvre shook his head. “Our military ties with Russia are just that,” he said. “Military.”

“And it is news to me that they have any modern manufacturing capacity at all,” added Jean Perrault.

Lefèvre rubbed the back of his neck. “And as for the Balkans -”

“Any man who kneels to a throne is an apostate to the Reform,” Maturin said flatly. “I have no concern for the wealth of these Croats.”

“You should consider, monsieur, that you did not go to the Russians or to the Balkans seeking an alliance,” Beaulieu pointed out. “You came to Paris. In return, it is not unreasonable for us to expect something in return - something more than you give to Novgorod or Belgrade.” The foreign minister raised his eyebrows. “You are not asking Russian or Balkan troops to die for Constantinople. You are asking that of Frenchmen. France should receive a commensurate benefit in return.”

“Our terms,” Maturin stated firmly, “stand. What do you say to them?”

Barnabas stored the quote about how the Balkan ‘Calvinists’ didn’t count as ‘True Believers’ in his head for a later time, and gave a nod. “Very well, we give full agreement to these terms. Thank you.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Then Maturin glanced at Beaulieu, and nodded. Beaulieu let out a long breath, and smiled - the first time any of the Frenchmen in the room had allowed themselves such an open display of emotion.

“Très bien, monsieur.” The foreign minister straightened in his chair. “We will await a formal apology for the pamphlets from your government. In the interim, we shall draft a treaty of mutual defense. Upon receipt of the apology, we shall use the goodwill that it creates to move that treaty through the Parlement. We shall expect, in return, that the Plebeian Assembly will pass a treaty likewise committing Byzantium to the defense of France - and opening Byzantium to French merchants while imposing taxes on manufactured imports from other countries.” Beaulieu’s smile broadened. “I am sure that our troops - wherever in Europe they may find themselves - will sleep sounder, knowing that their safety is protected by the threat of Constantinople.”

“As will yours, I pray,” added Bernat Lefèvre.

“Then we have terms.” Paul-Henri Maturin stood. He offered his hand to Barnabas. “God bless this day, monsieur. It is one that will not soon be forgotten.”

Barnabas shook it, his old hand showing signs of continued vigor. While he had no wish to betray his word, he knew that once he reported the full account of his discussions to the Foriegn Office, there will be people who would exploit what the highest levels of the French leadership had said about the Balkan ‘Calvinists’ should tensions with their northern neighbors rise anew. But that was a matter for another time. Right now, the treaty with the French was acceptable enough that the people will vote for it, albeit by an uncomfortably thin margin.

But not every diplomatic engagement can be a total victory, and this was better than the Pro-French faction in the Capital could realistically have hoped for...

[Dragos Bee]

United Byzantium (Nicaea and the Latines have been Retconnned Into One Nation)

Marsellies, Southern France

Every Byzantine ship which came to port not only carried grain, but also copies of a new pamphlet titled: ‘A Formal Apology for Mistaken Words’.

Indiscreet and hot-headed words have been said about the Calvinist Church, indiscreet words which have misrepresented the raw and warm faith of the French people. We ask for the forgiveness of said people for insulting the virtues on which their nation has been founded, and recant the assertions made in the false tract titled ‘A Calvinist God Who Hates’. For those who struggle against the Patriarch of Rome, he who claims power through forgery, fraud, and fiction, he who claims the Seat of St. Peter, even though Antioch, Jerusalem, and Alexandria are entitled to that honor as well, should not be divided by the Devil’s own lies. And so we repent of the crimes of the mouth and written word which had passed from us, and hope that in forgiveness, we are cleansed.

Word also arrived of the Plebeian Assembly in Constantinople passing the Treaty of Mutual Defense, including its economic provisions...

Constantinople

David Iagaris fumed as the treaty of mutual defense between France and Byzantium/Rhomanion was passed, albeit by a thin majority. Damn these traditionalists and damn the atheists and neo-pagans who were their bedfellows! Don’t they recognize that the Calvinists were the real threat to their souls?

However, it was not as if his efforts were fruitless, because the leaked reports from the Foriegn Office confirmed an opinion everyone else should have known already: ‘Calvinists’ who pledged allegiance to another nation were apostates who imperilled their own souls. If that sentiment, which the French did not mind others knowing, was made more public, that can be used to further frustrate the ‘Protestant’ community in the Balkans, and hopefully curtail their spread before they overthrew the Monarchy there.

His struggle had only begun, and he will have the next move.

Zagreb

A ‘leaked’ account of Barnabas Kapodistrias’ talk with the French Chancellor and his Ministers was allowed to fall into the hands of the United Balkan Kingdom’s spies and intelligence personnel. This account, which contained emphasis on the French dislike for the Balkan ‘Calvinists’, was meant to emphasize that the French were responsible for any decline in trade between the Kingdom and their southern neighbor, as well as prepare the ground for further distribution of this diplomatic report to the Calvinists of the Balkans.

David Iagaris’ followers were hoping that this would not only turn the Balkan Kingdom against the French, but also show the ‘Calvinists’ in the region that they were cut off and isolated in their beliefs and were repudiated by the French Commonwealth which claimed to be their creed’s champion.

[Nuraca]

The Reichssaal
Imperial City of Regensburg, Holy Roman Empire
June 15, 1765

The chamber was filled with applause as Viktor, recently crowned in Cologne as Emperor Victor II, was escorted into the Reichssaal by the Baron of Linz, the reinstated Imperial Chancellor (though his sacking had only lasted mere hours). Flanked by a ceremonial detachment of dismounted dragoons, Victor proceeded to the throne which sat on a low platform that would slightly raise the monarch above the members of the Imperial Diet.

In earlier days, the Emperor would call sessions of the Diet as-needed. Their meetings were rarely extensive, and indeed it was not uncommon centuries earlier to have some Emperors reign without ever choosing, ever needing the guidance of the Diet. But in recent generations, sparked by the Wars of Religion, the Diet had begun meeting increasingly thanks to internal conflict, the growth of the Empire's enemies and, most egregiously to Victor, the complacency of his grandfather. In fact, the Diet no longer "dissolved," instead existing as a sort of permanent institution which gave itself liberal recesses and mostly awaited the Emperor's summoning. However, as the Diet would see, Victor was not his grandfather, and though Otto was more bark than bite, Victor had his eyes on renovating the Empire and bringing it to new glory. To that extent, and unbeknownst to all present, the Diet was his enemy. And yet, in its presence he stood.

"My Most Honorable and Holy Diet, pray be seated," Victor sounded. Once all the Electors, Dukes, Margraves, Counts, Bishops, Archbishops, and even some Barons sunk into the almost church-like pews throughout the halls, Victor felt perhaps the first truly genuine and not completely ceremonial notion of his power over his vassals. Facing them all in his sharp, regal attire and wielding with his ceremonial scepter, he began to lay out his cause for summoning the Diet.

"We have summoned you today in the eternal and illustrious memory of His Imperial Majesty Otto, Elected Emperor of All Romans, to ensure the continued maintenance of the Imperial Throne of Its duties to Its most loyal and pious peoples, to ensure the continued providence of the Imperial Treasury, and to secure peace and well-being for the Imperial Throne and Its dutiful servants." Victor then sat down upon his throne, signalling the respected statesman, the Baron of Linz, to stand up and present the first matter the Emperor wished for the Diet to endorse.

"For over five hundred years now," the Imperial Chancellor began, "Your Graces and Your ancestors have chosen this noble Imperial house to guide the Empire. While our Empire has been built on the tradition of the Election, I submit to Your Graces' judgement that the Election exists in name only, and that, subsequently, as the Imperial Throne has become, as a matter of fact, hereditary in all instances but three in five hundred years, it is the duty of this estimable body to recognize the permanent hereditary succession..." The Baron paused for a moment as many members of the Diet began murmuring to each other, surprised at the bold proposal. "...of the Imperial Throne."

The Elector of Brandenburg stood, intending to speak. "I am most assured that Your Imperial Majesty has considered such a proposal with such fidelity and thoughtfulness. However, I wish to respectfully convey my immediate reservations, as much of the structure of the Empire politically depends on the Election." He was joined with a modest but not insignificant support. Was the Diet largely too stunned or apprehensive to actually voice their support or disapproval?

"Your Serene Highness," the Baron replied, "His Imperial Majesty wishes to propose that the structure of this body and the privileges afforded to those who are currently Electors shall remain. The Council of Electors shall be reconstituted into a Council of the Realm, and all lay Electors shall be elevated to the status of Grand Duchy, and all spiritual Electors to that of Grand Archbishoprics." The Baron studied the reaction of the Electors carefully. They were the natural enemies of this legislation, but Brandenburg's seemingly weak inquiry perhaps pointed towards a potential settlement. If the Electors, or at least a majority of them, would sign off on the Erbkaistertum, much of the Diet was likely to follow. Linz could see the Electors debating hurriedly. "And," the Baron continued, "His Imperial Majesty, with the approval of this estimable body, will proclaim the special restraint on appeals to the Imperial Court for legal matters within the realms of Electors."

An exchange of autonomy. But would it work?

---

To His Majesty Henry, King of Connacht

Your Grace,

His Imperial Majesty is most consoled by your words of praised for his grandfather in this time of great sadness. While His Imperial Majesty has declined to write correspondence in his period of mourning, I have been personally requested to extend his warm thanks and blessings upon Connacht and Your Majesty's noble house. While it is unlikely that the voyage from Your Grace's homeland could be expedited to provide for Your Councillor's attendance at His Majesty's funeral, Our Court would welcome Your Grace's Councillors gladly if Your Grace finds it prudent to send Them.

With Humble Sincerity,
His Grace the Baron of Linz, Chancellor and Lord Representative of His Majesty Viktor II, By the Grace of God, Elected Emperor of All Romans, etc. etc.

To His Imperial Byzantine Majesty Konstantinos XIV Apokaukos, Emperor of the Byzantines, etc. etc

Your Sovereign Grace,

His Imperial German Majesty wishes to grant you confirmation of his reception of the Most Fine and Luxurious Goods that Your Imperial Byzantine Majesty has dispatched. We extend our sincerest thanks and well-wishes to Your Sovereign Grace and Your lands.

With Humble Sincerity,
His Grace the Baron of Linz, Chancellor and Lord Representative of His Majesty Viktor II, By the Grace of God, Elected Emperor of Rome, etc. etc.

[Europa Undivided]

The United Kingdom of Bulgaria, Serbia, and Croatia

Zagreb

A ‘leaked’ account of Barnabas Kapodistrias’ talk with the French Chancellor and his Ministers was allowed to fall into the hands of the United Balkan Kingdom’s spies and intelligence personnel. This account, which contained emphasis on the French dislike for the Balkan ‘Calvinists’, was meant to emphasize that the French were responsible for any decline in trade between the Kingdom and their southern neighbor, as well as prepare the ground for further distribution of this diplomatic report to the Calvinists of the Balkans.

David Iagaris’ followers were hoping that this would not only turn the Balkan Kingdom against the French, but also show the ‘Calvinists’ in the region that they were cut off and isolated in their beliefs and were repudiated by the French Commonwealth which claimed to be their creed’s champion.

"This is absolutely unacceptable."

Zhelyasko Petrov filed through several documents that had been leaked from the diplomats of Constantinople, visibly fuming at their apparently outrageous contents. It wasn't just the part where the French were seemingly ignoring the fact that this treaty would most probably cause trade between the Balkans and the Eastern Roman Empire to decline by a rather damning degree; it was the fact that France cared little for the Calvinists residing in Croatia, and went as far as to call them traitors and apostates. Zhelyasko himself was a Protestant of Calvinist leanings, and to learn that the single country that claimed to be the champion of their creed was indifferent towards them simply because they accepted the rather limited authority of the king of Croatia. They had exactly the same beliefs and creeds, and yet, the Huguenots of France did not consider the Balkan Calvinists like himself to be their allies or friends. Rather, they were seen as no different to the Catholic and Orthodox folk that they lived side by side with. This is foolish...

"Make a hundred copies of each of these.", Zhelyasko said to the other spies that were also filing over dozens of leaked documents inside their safe house. "And make sure that they reach the King, Prime Minister, and the Spy Master within the week."

---

Within a few weeks, public opinion within the Balkan Kingdom towards the French began to sway from bad to worse. With approval from Parliament and the King, the contents of the leaked documents were made public, infuriating the Protestant communities within the nation. Why, they asked, did France see them as traitors when their only sin was to submit to a king with very limited power? The bourgesie also vehemently voiced their anger, as a decline of trade with their closest neighbor would mean bad things for them.

Peace was never an option.

[Danubian Peoples]

The Russian Republic

NOTE: WILL EDIT OR REDACT POST IF NECESSARY.

I had no idea what to put here for the italicized quip.

Novgorod
Grand Prince's Palace
June 5, 1765

Though it may be styled as the Grand Prince's Palace, the great complex at the heart of Novgorod serves as much more than just the residence the nation's head of state. One of its great chambers houses the High Veche, and it is also where numerous other government officials run their affairs. Case in point one Konstantin Ivanovich Osipov, the Russian Republic's Trade Minister. And because of this, he has a birds-eye view on all things commercial in Russia, albeit a very paper-filled view, as he looks down on written documents from the nation over.

The room is silent, the only noise being the slow burn of lamplight in the corner. A window to Osipov's right reveals an evening sky, shades of blue and purple and the onset of twinkling stars, as the sun recedes below the horizon. A serving of coffee sat by his left side. Osipov turns toward his drink, taking his left hand off the papers and onto its handle, before bringing it to his lips and taking a sip.

"The taste of trade," remarks the minister as he puts the cup down. "It's a good thing those Swedes opened up the Belts.."

Konstantin returns to the papers at his desk. They're documents from many corners of the country. A nation thirteen Frances wide. I pity whoever has to fetch these papers and bring them to this desk, he thinks. "So, judging by what I can see, the nation's recent 'reconciliation' with Sweden has been a boon for the economy. Trade with Atlantic-bordering nations has seen a noticeable uptick due to the opening of the Belts..." Osipov momentarily halts his aloud thinking to take a gander at his coffee cup. "...and goods from the New World have seen a general drop in price as a result. The fur trade remains steady, although we've seen a rise in Swedish demand corresponding with our recent diplomatic agreement. Meanwhile grain imports from Byzantium have been coming through nicely."

Osipov halts again, this time to grab some other documents from elsewhere on his desk. "Raiders are a real problem east of the Urals, although this paper says that the administration of Central Asia has attempted negotiations with the Chinese over this matter. Considering the distance I would not be surprised if this is out of date. Hmm-what's this?" Konstantin pulls up a paper and brings it to his nose, reading the cyrillic on its parchment. "Byzantines have raised tariffs on manufactured goods by several hundred percent... Guess I'll have to take that into account. Wonder why they'd bother.."

Another piece of paper, also referencing Asia. "Chinese trade relations soured, exchanges with border tribes curtailed to an extent. That'll be a bit damaging, I guess."

When Osipov finishes going over the numerous documents on his desk, he begins doing some laborious thinking, while also taking some spare parchment to jot down notes. When he is finished, Ospiov's head rises from below to make one triumphant annoucment.

"Despite some recent negative changes, we should overall be in a healthy trade surplus, that could be expected to last for the coming mon-"

"Who are you talking to?" cuts his aide, as he sits on a neighboring desk, going through their own slice of Russian bureaucracy, also in paper form.

"Umm.. no one," replies the Trade Minister. "Pretty sure we already went through this. I prefer to think aloud."

---

And now, a departure from the Novgorod setting, where we return once again to the wild fields of the Eurasian Steppe,

Russian Central Asia
June 5, 1765

"Rebuked. Plain and simple. Somehow, this is better than anything we could have asked for," states one Daniil Antonovich Stepanov, the Governor of the Central Asian Governorate. Next to him is Vladimir Ilyich Orlov, the General of the Army of Central Asia. The two run the region in tandem, and right now both are puzzling over a document from China.

"A real shame," states Orlov. "I was hoping I could send some riflemen down there, perhaps demonstrate to the Chinese that we aren't the barbarians they so frequently fancy their neighbors as. At the very least they expressed gratitude towards us. Though I wonder how much of it is indicative of building goodwill towards the showrunners in the Forbidden City, and how much of it is just required formaility in their circles."

"Yes, General, yes," replies Governor Daniil. "I really do hope it is the latter, nasty Breton slander has gotten Europe's, and therefore Russia's image collectively soiled. Trade with border tribes has been curtailed as of late thanks to it."

"I hear that our very own Peter, brother to the Grand Prince has been betrothed to the queen of the Bretons, Governor. I am willing to bet however, that such news is more fabricated hearsay than anything. Heard it from a solider who heard it from a friend. Anyway, these bandits, they've been weakened considerably. My forces are doing excellent work, although I assume much of this weakening is also the result of Chinese efforts on their end, considering where these raiders seem to originate."

The two men go back and fourth like this, exchanging their thoughts on the southern giant. In front of them is a letter from the Chinese, written in exceptional formality, and decorated with the Imperial seal. The two exchange these words in a particularly large fortress complex, which serves as a base of operations for governance in the region, although the general will frequently venture into the wider lands of the governorate, be it to inspect forts, drill troops, or even lead armies. The atmosphere is quite measured and relaxed, and the fields outside are bright hues of green and yellow, colored by the steppe sun.

"As for internal affairs, well, this year's food supply has been good so far, the herders report decently fertile pastures. The Silk Road, though disturbed by the enroachment of these raiders, has begun a return to normal levels of activity. To our north lies Siberian Governates, which are wholly different administrations, although what little I hear from up there tells me that the furs are coming in nicely. Our our fur industry, though smaller in comparison, is doing decently well."

"My armies have eagerly awaiting the arrival of French support. Reports say they've been concocting a general army plan for Russia's fighting men, and are currently implementing it in the Veches. I wonder how much these Frenchmen know as much about steppe fighting as our cavalry regiments, though. Some of the soldiers have raised concerns that whatever they dream up might not be up to standard in these wildlands."

"Tell your men to have some faith in the French, Valdimir," replies the governor. "I am sure that the French are wise enough to realize that Russia is very different from France."

The two contiue to converse lengthily, until it comes time for them to return to the usual. By the time the general exits the complex, the sun had moved three hours due east. In there a while, eh, Vlad? he muses to himself. He mounts himself on a trusted steed and rides off to the distance. The governor is content to sit back at the fortress and instead look over some administrative matters.

[Dragos Bee]

United Byzantium (Nicaea and the Latines have been Retconnned Into One Nation)

Constantinople

David Iagaris was satisfied with the results of his work, with the Balkan Kingdom being turned against the French. However, what he was not satisfied with were the signs of the Empire’s commitment to war with the Catholics. Ships were being built, weapons manufactured, and the taxes on Balkan goods were being spent on a ring of Star Forts across both sides of the Bosporus Strait to deter an attack on the Capital. It was clear that the Senate and the Emperor and their lackeys were intent on siding with the true threat to the souls of Rhomanion.

His residence was no longer safe from spies, either, as a watch had been placed on him by the Office of Internal Affairs, the intelligence agency of the Empire - It was friends within said agency which had notified him of that. Nevertheless, his fanatical and obsessive hatred allowed the politician no respite. Thin and wizened before his time by stress and obsessive fasting during Lent, David began sending letters to his friend, Alexander Laskaris, Patriarch of Antioch, asking him to drum up support among the more conservative monasteries, asking for their support in drumming up support for Anti-Calvinist candidates in future elections.

Oh, and also to organize protests if he were ever arrested or ‘disappeared’...