Let the School Year Commence

[Xirnium]

In outraged protest, a telephone splintered the silence in the office of the embassy’s cultural attaché. Frowning, Andrey gazed at the bowl of his pipe, then picked up a red receiver from the bank of four telephones.

‘Yes,’ said Andrey in a neutral voice. ‘Speaking.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Yes sir, over.’ Andrey pressed down the button of his scrambler. He held the receiver close to his ear and not a sound from it escaped into the office. There was a long pause during which he puffed occasionally at the pipe in his left hand.

He took it out of his mouth. ‘Oh, I agree, sir.’ Another pause. ‘No sir, I did not get involved,’ Andrey said, frowning at the black, pot-belied stove in the corner of his office; where he had already consigned the remains of his cellphone, smashed to pieces, to the flames. ‘If you would allow me to say, sir, I think that would be unwise.’ A pause, and then Andrey’s face cleared. ‘Thank you, sir. And of course next time I’ll insist they use their own damned phones.’ Another pause. ‘I understand. That will be done.’ Another pause. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’

Andrey put the red receiver back on its cradle and the scrambler button clicked back to the ‘en clair’ position.

For several moments, Andrey continued to look at the red telephone, as if unsure about the way he had chosen his words. Eventually, he put the pipe back in his mouth and pulled at it thoughtfully. It had gone out. Then he twisted in his chair, away from the desk, and gazed out of the darkened window.

[Pantocratoria]

After his meeting with Félicité, Rupert Azrâghast called his assistant, Liliana, back into his office and issued her instructions to invite Pantocratoria’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sir Cyrus, to dinner at the Restaurant La Marmite. Although the restaurant may have lost its second Michelin star a few years ago (and, at the equivalent of 180ƒ for the tasting menu, was fairly pricey), at least they would be able to get in without a booking; and no man could fault its wine list. Or if the foreign minister was a little busy for dinner, then maybe they could grab a bite at the nearby delicatessen, or coffee at a stylish café.

The purpose of the unplanned catch-up was, primarily, for Rupert to notify Sir Cyrus of his temporary departure from New Rome, scheduled for 10.48p.m. that evening. With him, Rupert brought his inoffensive counsellor, Félix Helvêrgelmir (who could converse equally well on rugby, hunting or women, and so was fluent in most of the topics of male conversation; he also told stories about the (Newly-Modelled) Navy which Rupert could listen to all day — stories of battles and bizarre occurrences, eccentric officers and hated officers, narrow shaves, courts martial, and neatly-worded signals), as well as a letter, from the ministry of foreign affairs, appointing the latter as the Eternal Republic’s chargé d’affaires ad interim. Between melted brie with white truffles and Bellini aperitifs, Rupert confided to Sir Cyrus (off the record, of course) that, prior to his return to the Pantocratorian Empire, he expected the latter to receive a formal request for agrément, accompanied by his curriculum vitae.

So, both a farewell courtesy call, and a kind of ex-ante promotion celebration.

In the meantime, Félicité packed her modest belongings into two suitcases and a valise and she passed the next few hours chatting with an increasingly nervous Élisabeth. As the hour neared, the women and a small handful of other diplomats gathered expectantly in the front hall of the embassy. At about half past nine, around about the time that Rupert was saying goodnight to Sir Cyrus and Félix with one last bourbon and a thin cheroot, a flashing smile, and a firm but not unpleasantly firm handshake, as well as the vague but grinning promise to do dinner again ‘more properly’ upon his return, Élisabeth touched Félicité on the shoulder and told her that it was finally time to go.

‘Hm, there’s only one thing missing, though. You’d look so pretty with something on your head,’ Élisabeth said, and put a wide-brimmed picture hat on the young girl’s hair.

The large and silent Silverflyte Six Model C motorcars, which drew up one by one to let on their passengers with their luggage, all had little Eternal Republic flags and distinctive diplomatic licence plates, issued by Pantocratoria’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and coded to reflect the degree of privilege and immunity which their registered owners enjoyed. The motorcar inside which Félicité and Élisabeth sat with Harald, like Rupert’s, had plates with a prefix issued only to diplomatic missions and those members who held diplomatic rank, the category which enjoyed the highest degree of immunity, and its driver had the matching vehicle registration card and operator permit.

‘Not long now,’ Élisabeth promised Félicité across the soft deerskin leather back seat. She smiled thinly.

‘What if they stop the plane?’ Félicité asked.

She had grown increasingly paranoid after the initial relief of finally talking to her father had ended. What if they had traced the call? What if now she was out of the embassy they pulled her over, or waited until she got out of the car at the airport? What if she had to go back to Feurvel after all? No, it can’t happen. Could it?

‘You shouldn’t worry about that, sweetheart,’ said Élisabeth, taking her hand briefly. ‘The ambassador will be boarding the plane. Ambassadors enjoy complete personal inviolability, which means they cannot be detained,’ she recited as if by rote. ‘The same holds true for Harald and I.’

‘But they could get me when we get out of the car, right?’ Félicité asked. After Feurvel she certainly didn’t feel personally inviolable.

Élisabeth frowned. ‘We’re not boarding the plane by an ordinary commercial terminal,’ she explained. ‘We’re not going through customs and immigration. We’re using a reserved section of the airport specifically for diplomatic flights. As we’re carrying the diplomatic bag in the boot, we’re going to drive directly onto the tarmac, right up to the plane.’

‘They don’t check you when you get onto the plane?’ Félicité asked. ‘Like, they don’t check your passport even?’

‘We all have diplomatic passports,’ said Élisabeth. ‘Eternal Republic diplomatic passports.’ As if the phrase could be a magic charm. ‘So do you.’ The woman felt in her right coat pocket. She had seen her own before, it was the kind issued to ‘persons representing the Eternal Republic travelling to locations or on assignments where a Diplomatic passport is essential for the performance of the Government’s business’. Félicité’s described her as belonging to the class of ‘persons in respect of whom the Minister for Foreign Affairs considers special circumstances apply’. It had a validity of 6 months and described her nationality as Xirniumite; it had been stamped at the embassy. She gave it to the girl. ‘But I doubt the men at the gate will check them. I don’t think they did last time. Our aircraft is a government plane.’

‘But last time there weren’t dozens of escaped prisoners seeking asylum...’ Félicité worried aloud as she thumbed through her new passport. ‘What if they check? They’ll know I’m not really Xirniumite won’t they?’

‘You’re not going to speak to them,’ Élisabeth said tersely. ‘You’re not going to get out of this car until I give you my hand and you step outside with me. You are Xirniumite. They won’t check. Now shush. Try not to worry.’ Élisabeth certainly was; she folded her arms and frowned deeply.

‘OK. They won’t check.’ Félicité repeated. She was trying to convince herself as much as anything else. ‘They won’t check. OK.’

Élisabeth clenched her jaw, and tried to clear her mind. It wasn’t working. This was stupid. They were fucked. The way Rupert had explained it to her in his office it had sounded so simple, she had just nodded docilely as he outlined everything very logically; but what did he know, really? He was a man, just another stupid, arrogant, over-confident man. ‘Okay. Okay.’ She inhaled sharply through her teeth. ‘Take off your hat, sweetheart...’ she said, awkwardly fumbling for her large handbag on the floor near her feet.

Félicité complied, although she didn’t know the reason. ‘They won’t check.’ she mumbled again to herself.

Élisabeth removed from her handbag several sticks of lipstick; various understated shades of pink, which were no good, and a bolder, vampish red, which was perfect. She let the useless ones roll across the back seat and handed the red one to the girl. ‘Have you worn make-up before?’ she asked. It was not a question you would have to ask a girl from Xirnium. Félicité nodded, suddenly paying attention to what Élisabeth was doing. Élisabeth rummaged further and found a powder-compact, mascara, eyeliner, even nail polish. ‘Okay, good girl,’ she said. ‘We need to make you look older.’

‘Uhh...’ Félicité pondered for a moment before she seemed to first grasp then like the idea. ‘Right! Yes, good idea!’

Élisabeth unclipped her seatbelt to scoot over to Félicité. Then, awkwardly twisting in the back seat, but with remarkable skill under the circumstances, they soon transformed Félicité into, if not quite a grown-up exactly, at least the kind of underaged callgirl about whom Rupert could swear to a constable ‘I didn’t know she wasn’t eighteen!’.

‘You don’t think… it’s a bit, like, much do you?’ Félicité asked as she regarded herself in the compact’s mirror. She had worn make-up before but her mother had always told her that ‘Less is more, Licité!’ any time she had even come close to trying to leave the house looking like Élisabeth had just made her up. ‘I don’t look… like, you know, one of those girls?’

‘Oh my Goddess, Félicité, we aren’t going to meet your boyfriend’s parents!’ She studied her carefully, wondering if maybe it was too much, but no, she had such rosy cheeks and lips that it was very hard to hide her youth. Ordinarily, Élisabeth would have been a little jealous. ‘It’s, like... have you ever tried to get into a nightclub?’

‘No...’ Félicité blushed, although through the make-up, it was hard to tell. ‘There aren’t many in Thyrantion and my only ID is a school ID anyway.’

‘If you wear the right miniskirt and heels, you don’t always need ID...’ Élisabeth murmured, then bit her lip. It was not her job to lead astray an innocent girl; that task was for the peers her own age. Fussily, Élisabeth adjusted the corner of Félicité’s make-up. ‘How did you… I mean, what made you take your cousin’s prescription pad, you know, in the first place? Did some of your girlfriends...’

‘Uhh…’ Félicité began, this time her blush managing to find its way through the make-up. ‘Well, I, erm… Well, you see, I had to get, like… I had to get some, for myself, you know, and like, it was really… it made things really awkward at home when I needed my parents to take me to get the prescription, you know? And like, there were other girls, friends… and most of them just, well took their chances if they had… done it… without a...’ she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘condom... and, like, then the idea… it wasn’t a good idea, but at the time, I guess, it seemed like it was.’

‘Uh-huh...’ agreed Élisabeth. ‘It’s always awkward, with parents, right?’ she said, remembering what it was like when she was a girl, as well as her own daughter’s secrecy when she was a teenager. ‘I don’t think it’s ever easy, you know, talking about that, with parents.’ Not even in the Bright Republic. ‘So like, was this guy, your boyfriend, or…’

‘Yes, I wouldn’t, you know, with just anybody!’ Félicité replied defensively. ‘But I figured, my parents were like a lot more laid back about it than, like, you know, most parents would be, I guess. I knew other girls who were too scared to talk to their parents, and they were, like, just going to wait and see... you know... that’s just stupid. I mean, like, who wants to be a mother at fifteen, and not married, that's just retarded, right? Nobody does that if they have a choice.’

Élisabeth nodded. ‘Yeah, fifteen is way too young to be a mother,’ she agreed, satisfied that Félicité’s make-up struck the right balance between mature and not a tramp. Élisabeth would have killed her daughter if she had wanted to have a child before twenty-one! Not literally, of course. ‘At fifteen you’ve still got your whole life ahead of you. High school graduation. University. And like, boys at your age are fun,’ she said with a lopsided smirk, ‘but you can do so much better for a husband.’ Élisabeth put the picture hat back on Félicité’s head, and with her pretty features shaded the make-up looked much better. ‘What do you want to become?’ she asked her. ‘You know like, in Xirnium, you can be anything you want.’

‘Even as a convicted drug dealer?’ Félicité asked. ‘I don’t know, I guess I’d like to be… like a writer or something. A travel writer maybe. I went on holiday to Ambara once. It was pretty cool. I’d like to go on holiday and write about it for a living.’

‘That sounds like it’d be pretty fun,’ said Élisabeth, nodding. ‘Like, just don’t join the foreign service… I sort of did for similar reasons, you know because I liked the idea of travelling abroad, but you don’t get to choose where you go, not really, your qualifications and experience sort of do for you, and then you have to stay in the same city for months and months, often years… it’s just not as great as you might think.’ She put her hand against her cheek. ‘Although it’s been fun meeting you.’ She smiled a little.

‘Thank you.’ Félicité replied. ‘You’ve saved my life, you and the Ambassador… sorry, Charge d’Affaires… like, Mathilde and everyone else too but like, especially you two. I’ll never forget any of you.’ She smiled weakly with the sentiment. ‘So this make-up and the hat, the guards won’t recognise me, right? That’s the plan?’

Élisabeth covered her mouth while she nodded firmly. ‘I didn’t think they were going to recognise you anyway...’ she began, looking grave again, ‘but like, oh Félicité, maybe you were right to be nervous, a fifteen-year-old girl walking through with us might look suspicious, right? You look much less conspicuous now, you actually look a little like Mathilde, just brunette...’ she covered her mouth again, this time to hide her amusement. ‘You almost look Xirniumite. So, fingers crossed, they won’t glance at you twice, they won’t ask any questions, and we can walk straight through. Just… act mature… You can do that.’ She said, nodding encouragingly.

‘Should I practice a Xirniumite accent?’ Félicité joked nervously.

‘Umm…’ Élisabeth wondered. They were getting closer to the airport gate. ‘Just go to Rupert and stay next to him; when you’re with a man people always expect him to do all the talking for you...’ She pursed her lips.

‘Even in Xirnium?’ Félicité asked incredulously.

‘What? Oh, well in Xirnium only other men expect the man to do all the talking,’ said Élisabeth said wryly. ‘I’m kidding. Kind of.’

‘Well, I’ll let him do all the talking tonight, no problems.’ Félicité nodded.

Élisabeth laughed. ‘Oh, I like you,’ she smiled.

On the tarmac at New Rome International Airport, a little booth had been set up next to the mobile boarding staircase which led up to the Xirniumite diplomatic charter aircraft. Two uniformed Pantocratorian men were at the booth, one armed with a rifle, the other armed with e-passport reading equipment and the usual accompanying stamps and such. Neither looked particularly concerned about the approaching Silverflyte Six Model Cs which had by this time been admitted onto the tarmac after only a cursory glance and wave through by the airport’s outer security at the diplomatic/private charter runway entrance.

‘Okay, that’s the plane,’ said Élisabeth with a sigh, half relief and half trepidation.

The airliner running through final pre-flight procedures next to the booth was an aging Myrta-Glorifloure W.154 three-engine, medium-to-long-range, narrowbody aircraft of a type prolific since the mid-70s belonging to Xirnium Air, the Eternal Republic’s flag carrier. Powered by three turbofan engines mounted in the tail, the airliner’s wings were of sweptback design, the tail unit a single-fin sweptback structure, with a seating capacity of over about a hundred and a length just under fifty metres.

Already waiting for the women, having recently arrived, Rupert raised a cheroot to his lips and took a small draw. He was still slightly drunk from having wined and dined Sir Cyrus, and trying to sober up in the bracing night air.

‘Go girl, go to him,’ Élisabeth whispered in Félicité’s ear, and she pushed her gently forward by the small of her back. The older woman hung back for a moment to add a few words for the benefit of others, as well as help the diplomatic agents, support and technical staff and carabiniers remove the luggage from the cars.

Rupert blinked as though trying to straighten his vision as Félicité tripped more or less confidently up to him. Fortunately, the Pantocratorians would have seen him slightly less than gracefully alight from his car, so as he gave his cheroot a final draw, flicked it to the tarmac and then killed it in under his toe, his surprise would not have raised too many eyebrows.

‘Quick, put your lips next to my ear and laugh,’ he told her in her hair after, summing the situation up at a glance (Élisabeth would later remark dryly to her boss how ‘convenient’ it had been that his first thought was Félicité was playing his mistress), and inspired by the alcohol, he briefly held her neck and kissed the girl on her lips. His hand slipped under her arm, sliding down her waist, and he felt thoroughly sleazy, an effect that would not have been downplayed by his drunkenness. Félicité wanted to pull away from the smell of liquor and the wandering hands, but it only took half a second for it to occur to her that this too was part of the cover. Obediently, she leaned in towards his ear as if to whisper something, and then laughed. It was more of a little giggle - it was hard to force a convincing laugh.

The uniformed Pantocratorians glanced at each other, one with a half-smirk on his face. The other, the one whose job it was to check passports not to carry a rifle and look serious, actually managed to maintain an affection of studied disinterest on his face, although he allowed himself to watch far more closely than good manners would have suggested.

At the booth, Rupert took the passport from Félicité. ‘Sorry for being responsible for you gentlemen standing outside here at this hour,’ he said as conversationally as he could in his state of inebriation, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if trying to give the men something to pretend to focus on besides his inappropriately young company.

‘It’s not too late for us, monsieur.’ the official at the portable passport counter said. He added under his breath but certainly loud enough for Rupert to hear: ‘Might be past the lady’s bedtime though.’ He turned on the e-passport reader and readied his stamp. ‘Passports, monsieur?’

With his hand still around Félicité’s waist, Rupert handed the passports over to the Pantocratorian, and gave him a strangled smile. Another dignitary of the Bright Republic had made a fine impression upon the Pantocratorian Empire. The passport officer scanned Rupert’s passport, and then provided the customary exit stamp barely glancing at his screen. The next passport’s was Félicité’s newly minted Xirniumite ‘special circumstances’ passport. This one required the officer to look at the photo and the embassy’s attestation stamp manually, since it wasn’t an e-passport. His eyes passed over Félicité’s date of birth. She doesn’t look THAT young… what an old pervert. the officer scowled as he first glanced at Félicité and then again at Rupert. He shook his head in none too subtle disapproval, and then stamped the exit stamp in the temporary passport, and then he handed both passports back.

‘Make sure you get a proper passport before you return, mademoiselle.’ the passport officer told Félicité, although his eyes weren’t on her long before they were back on Rupert, the burning disapproval in them all too evident. ‘Have a pleasant flight, monsieur.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Rupert with a sheepish twist of the mouth as he pressed Félicité’s hip. ‘Come on.’

Rupert and Félicité wandered to the mobile boarding staircase while two jack-leather booted carabiniers formed adjacent on the right, clicked their heels and saluted; not that this did much to restore the Bright Republic’s honour on this occasion. ‘Goodbye, your Excellency, and have a safe trip!’ Those diplomats and members of the support and technical staff returning to Holy Xirnium sorted out their passports and followed the ambassador as he climbed the steps.

On board the aircraft, Félicité separated from Rupert rather suddenly and dramatically, and breathed out a sigh of relief. She sat down in a window seat, and glanced down at the soldiers and at the tarmac of New Rome International Airport. Not exactly the capital’s most glamorous vista, but nevertheless it was her last look at her homeland for the foreseeable future.

Back on the tarmac, as they finished processing the staff, the passport officer closed his notebook, folded back the pages on his clipboard, shut down the e-passport reader, and shook his head.

‘Did you see that little trollop the head of mission was with?’ the other uniformed man asked excitedly as he came forward to help pack down the passport booth.

‘That pervert, she was fifteen!’ the passport officer protested.

‘Whoa, she looked, well, a little older...’ the other man responded in surprise.

‘She still looked too young for him.’ the passport officer declared. ‘Anyway, here, hold this for me while I fold this down will you?’

***

The next morning, Sir Cyrus Fastonville settled in behind his desk in his office at the Department of Foreign Affairs building, with a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, and a newspaper in another. He actually set the newspaper down as he sat, and instead opened up the file on his desk labelled “OVERNIGHT BRIEFING” which he knew to be from Pantocratoria’s intelligence services. He was sipping his coffee when he noted, with delight, a note in the file from the Imperial Domestic Intelligence Service reporting on the departure of Rupert Azrâghast and other Xirniumite embassy staff and officials from Pantocratoria shortly after their dinner the night before. What delighted him was not Azrâghast’s departure - he didn’t mind the fellow in the slightest - however, it was the sort of salacious detail that IDIS and IFIS both always sought to include in their reports on such matters - that he had departed with his fifteen year-old mistress.

‘A schoolgirl for a mistress, you old dog...’ Sir Cyrus chortled between sips of coffee.

The Minister’s gazed passed over to the folded newspaper set down on the left hand side of his desk. There was yet another front-page story relating to Feurvel and the prison break on it. He picked up the newspaper and his eyes skimmed the article in question.

‘...claimed that police were watching foreign embassies in case escapees went there seeking asylum...’

Sir Cyrus still had the smile on his face from reading about Azrâghast’s indiscretion when that line caught his eye. A schoolgirl for a mistress… he thought to himself as he sipped his coffee again. No, surely not… Surely… He set down his cup of coffee, and tentatively pressed the intercom to his personal assistant.

‘Marie...’ he began.

‘Yes, Minister?’

‘Rupert Azrâghast, Xirniumite charge d’affaires…’ Sir Cyrus began. ‘Get a copy of his file for me, please.’

‘His Department file, Sir Cyrus?’

‘His IDIS file, Marie.’ Sir Cyrus answered. He knew Azrâghast was a womanizer but were his mistresses usually schoolgirls? Surely I’m being ridiculous…

‘Yes, Minister.’

[Pantocratoria]

Office of the Imperial Chancellor
Palais du Parlement
New Rome

"...sit around being blasé about it, no, we can't!" Sir Thierry del Moray ranted to Sir Isaac Comnenus, Sir Cyrus Fastonville, and their ministerial chiefs of staff.

"With great respect, Sir Thierry," Sir Isaac began, patiently. "We cannot be so eager to redress trumped up political nonsense from the Allaneans just because Peacock Motors has a lot of factories there. It's an absurd basis for decision making."

"Sir Isaac, are you implying that because I once worked for the Peacock Family of Companies, that my objectivity is impaired by the fact that if the Allanean Administration proceeds with this, I agree, quite absurd classification of Pantocratoria as a pro-slavery state, Peacock Motors stands to lose a lot of money?" Sir Thierry demanded defensively.

"Of course not, Chancellor," Sir Isaac began. "I am just suggesting that you are making too big a deal of the potential consequences of the Allaneans making such a declaration."

"Their entire SUV production happens in Allanea!" Sir Thierry pointed out. "Those factories and other assets will be seized..."

"Chancellor, you just said..." Sir Isaac frowned. He was getting frustrated. "Forget it. Yes, you are incapable of objectivity where Peacock is concerned. To be seen to acquiesce in any way to the Kazansky Administration is political self-harm of the highest order, on the back of this prison break, which those lawless brutes perpetrated, as everyone knows..."

"Not officially!" Sir Thierry shot back. "That's just an IFIS briefing..."

"IFIS doesn't get things like this wrong." Sir Isaac snapped. "This is political self-harm to appease a band of armed thugs. It's needless. We need to be rebuilding momentum we've lost over this Feurvel nonsense in the lead up to the election, Sir Thierry!"

"Do you have any idea how much fucking money Peacock Motors gives to the United Christian Front, Sir Isaac?" Sir Thierry shouted.

"Four hundred million ducats in the first quarter of this year alone." coughed Sir Thierry's chief of staff.

"Four hundred fucking million ducats in the first quarter of this year alone, before the election has even officially begun!" Sir Thierry repeated and clarified triumphantly. "What do you think will happen to our momentum if Peacock Motors stops feeling quite so civic-minded, hmm?"

"But..." Sir Isaac began.

"But nothing!" Sir Thierry said. "Sir Cyrus, I want you to travel to Liberty City, sit down with the Allanean Secretary of State, and sort out this misunderstanding, promise to fix this marital rape in the nobility codswallop, compromise on whatever else they might want, within reason, and keep those factories open and in Peacock's hands!"

There was a long silence in the air as everyone turned to the Foreign Minister, who had a look of stunned horror on his face. Finally, he regained his composure.

"Oh, Chancellor, it would be, well, it would be quite an honour, I can tell you, and a very distinct privilege, and..." Sir Cyrus stammered, buying time. "Uhh... but unfortunately, I just, well... Sir Isaac's right, Chancellor, it would be political suicide."

"It is suicide for the party to allow harm to come to its largest donor." Sir Thierry folded his armed contemptuously.

Yes, I meant political suicide for me personally... Sir Cyrus winced. Finally a thought hit him. "Besides, Chancellor, let's face it, addressing the few substantive issues at stake here, if indeed you could even call them substantive, is well within the competency of our Ambassador. The real issue, of course, is that Kazansky just plain dislikes Pantocratoria. It's personal. No logic or reason after all could sustain the idea that we actually practice slavery because a few noblewomen must be... strongly guided in their performance of their marital duties, after all."

"That was the Socialists who left that ridiculous loophole in there referencing that 19th Century law anyway!" Sir Thierry nodded in agreement. "But somebody must go to Kazansky, in person, Sir Cyrus, to prove to him that we take this matter seriously!"

"Oh, Chancellor, I quite agree..." Sir Cyrus nodded. He had thought of a candidate already. "We need somebody with some diplomatic experience, but someone still young and fresh-faced. Someone sympathetic. Someone the Allaneans can complain to about this marital rape rot who might actually convince them that they care. A woman, for instance. Someone easy on the eye..."

"Likeable on a personal level." Sir Isaac nodded, although this was more a joke at Sir Cyrus' expense than an indication he had anyone in mind.

"Indeed, someone likeable." Sir Cyrus nodded, oblivious. "Someone who understands all about corsets and inspections and arranged marriages and all that, someone the Allaneans will want to be sorry for. Someone who is seen to be independent of the Government but still able to speak for it. Someone who, if it all goes pear-shaped, will deflect the blame from the Government." Someone who ISN'T me who can be humiliated in my place.

"Clearly you have someone in mind for this diplomatic sacrificial lamb?" Sir Thierry asked.

"I do indeed, Chancellor." Sir Cyrus smiled. "I do indeed."

Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator
New Rome

The Emperor's Coucher
Later that evening

Princess Marie was only in Pantocratoria for about half the year, the other half she spent in the Caldan Union, usually at the Royal Court. As she awaited her turn (according to precedence) to wish her uncle the Emperor goodnight, she reflected that she far preferred the more intimate ceremonies of Queen Gwendolyn's court to the rigid inflexibility of her homeland's rituals. When it was time for her to wish her uncle a goodnight, she entered the room and curtseyed so deeply her peaches and cream court dress nearly seemed to flatten against the polished wood floor of the outer reception hall of the Emperor's private apartments. As she rose, she found it hard to breathe in again. Every time she returned to New Rome and to the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator in particular, where the ladies wore corsets, it tended to send her into a bit of a panic about her appearance, and she had taken to having her corset laced particularly tightly for fear that if she did not, she might look overweight compared to the other ladies. Objectively, even she knew this was absurd - she was very slender, dramatically underweight even, and had previously suffered from stress-related eating disorders, although she had sought treatment, but she couldn't help it, and she was deadly frightened that somebody might think her fat.

"Good night, Your Majesty." Marie told her uncle.

"I want to talk to you, mademoiselle." the Emperor informed her from his armchair.

"Shall I join the evening's discussion?" Marie asked, perhaps over-eagerly referring to the period where, after bidding goodnight to the courtiers, the Emperor would sit and talk in armchairs in the adjacent lounge room with, usually, his brother Prince Basil (Marie's father), and his son Constantine. It was usually exclusively male, but it didn't need to be and women whose opinion the Emperor especially valued were occasionally invited. Marie had never been invited and after hearing that Princess Morgan, Constantine's wife, had been invited last week, she had begun to feel overlooked.

"Whatever for?" the Emperor frowned.

"To talk, Sire?" Marie offered weakly.

"We're talking now." the Emperor replied as if she was a very stupid child, although she was twenty-nine and by now a reasonably experienced part-time diplomat - as serious a career as any of the princesses had had except for her aunt, Irene.

"Yes, Sire." Marie answered and bowed her head.

"The Allaneans and consequently their allies in Greater Prussia are moving to declare Pantocratoria a slaver-state." the Emperor began. "This is intolerable and ridiculous. Some of the legislative issues are being addressed by the ambassador, but the Chancellor is of the opinion, and I quite agree, that the root of these moves is a deep, personal resentment of Pantocratoria and, probably, of me in particular, by President Kazansky."

"Sire." Marie acknowledged. It didn't seem that they were talking so much as she was about to be given an instruction, but it was not her place to say so.

"You will go to the Greater Prussian court in Reichsburg, in Reichskamphen, as my personal envoy to President Kazansky in his position as Emperor of Greater Prussia." the Emperor instructed. "You will discuss, in broad terms, whatever legislative or regulatory issues he wishes to discuss, but first and foremost you are to offer the hand of friendship and try to mend the ill-feeling towards us. The Department will prepare a briefing about the legal matters, but I expect these will mostly be dealt with by the Ambassador in Liberty City. You must focus on befriending Kazansky. Possibly his proverbial weak underbelly is his First Lady cum Empress. I will have lavish gifts for the President, First Lady, and their newly adopted daughter prepared for you to present. These material gestures will be as nothing, however, compared to the efficacy of any rapport you can build with the Emperor and Empress of Greater Prussia, you understand. Do your very best."

"Yes, Sire." Marie curtseyed again, impressed with the magnitude of the assignment. He must really respect me if he thinks I am capable of washing away the bad blood between Pantocratoria and Allanea! "It is an honour to be of service, Sire."

"Quite." the Emperor agreed. "Goodnight, mademoiselle."

"Uhh..." Marie caught herself. She was about to ask a question when she had been dismissed and sent to bed by the simple phrase 'Goodnight'. "A very goodnight to you too, Sire."

She curtseyed one more time before removing herself from her uncle's presence and making way for the next lady in the order of precedence to wish the Emperor a pleasant sleep, and started to head off towards her own private apartments.

[Xirnium]

Eternal Republic High Court of Parliament Inquiry into Sexting

Date: 30 Vorstôthe Bright Era MMMDCCXCV

Summary

The Law Society of the Eternal Republic of Xirnium has provided the High Court of Parliament’s Law Reform Committee with a submission to its Inquiry into Sexting.

The Inquiry into Sexting was sent to the Law Reform Committee by the High Court of Parliament following media reports that teenagers in the Empire of Pantocratoria (and most disturbingly, teenaged girls) were being charged with child pornography offences for sending explicit images or videos of themselves or their peers by email or phone, or for publishing them online.

The Law Society recommended to the Inquiry that defences of self-depiction and consent be created for the charges of possession and production of child pornography.

Whilst sexting may not always be innocuous or victimless, nor something to be encouraged or condoned, the Law Society is of the view that sexting by children is not necessarily the type of predatory and exploitative behaviour sought to be targeted by laws that are designed to criminalise child pornography activity, id est the exploitation of children by adults for the purposes of some kind of sexual gratification.

Discretion to prosecute

The Law Society is of the view that the discretion not to prosecute should be exercised in those straightforward cases that involve no malicious or aggravating element (for example, lack of consent, coercion or blackmail).

The Director of Public Prosecutions has established a two-stage test that should be undertaken by a prosecutor prior to deciding whether to prosecute. The first stage determines whether there is sufficient evidence to justify the initiation of a prosecution. The second stage requires a prosecutor to consider whether, in light of the provable facts and the whole surrounding circumstances, the public interest requires a prosecution to be pursued.

The public interest test is the dominant consideration on the basis that the resources available for prosecution action are finite and should not be wasted pursuing inappropriate cases — a corollary of which is that the available resources are employed to pursue with vigour the cases worthy of prosecution.

Defences

In some cases, aggravating elements may be in dispute, meaning that the public interest assessment is not so easily applied and a prosecution is initiated. For this reason, the Law Society submitted that two new defences to possession and production of child pornography offences should be created.

Self-depiction

The Law Society submitted that it should be a defence to a prosecution where the image or video depicts only the accused person.

Consent

The Law Society submitted that a defence of consent should apply in limited cases where the image or video was created between consenting parties over the age of 13 and within two years age of each other. Such a defence would not offend against the current age of consent laws.

The defence would not apply to reproduction or transmission of the image or video beyond the first intended recipient.

Government response

The High Court of Parliament is required to table a response to the submission within six months.

Ludwiga z’Ambâryn
President
Law Society of the Eternal Republic of Xirnium

[Tarasovka]

FOREIGN AFFAIRS MINISTRY
TARASKOVYAN EMPIRE

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

POLICY PROPOSAL RESUME
ALLANEA / PANTOCRATORIA : SLAVER STATUS ISSUE

Automated stamp:
3rd Directorate
17 – 587 - 234 / PANIMP – 1611 - 79

To the Foreign Affairs Minister of the Taraskovyan Empire
Copy to: Pantocratorian Affairs Directorate

Your High Excellency,

As per the Policy Proposal attached to the present Policy Proposal Resume, the 3rd Directorate, VERITAS Affairs Department, and the Pantocratorian Affairs Department jointly hereby recommend the following should the United States of Allanea move to formally proclaim the Pantocratorian Empire a « slaver state », leading to a « formal state of war » between the United States of Allanea and the Pantocratorian Empire :

1. Issue a formal rebuke, classify Allanean actions as unjustified and overexagerated. N.B. Please see the opinio juris of the Legal Department on the matter of Pantocratorian marital rape legislation, as part of the Policy Proposal.
2. Withdraw diplomatic personnel from Allanea. Expel Allanean diplomatic personnel.
3. Freeze all interactions to suit the Allanean status of « formal state of war ».
4. Reciprocate Allanean actions economical, political & cultural against Pantocratoria.
5. In case of military hostilities on the part of Allanea against Pantocratoria, transmit case handling to the Ministry of Defence. N.B. Open military hostilities unlikely.

Until such time that the United States of Allanea formally declares the Pantocratorian Empire a « slaver state », the Taraskovyan Empire should avoid poisoning the situation and encourage a peaceful resolution of the issue. To this end :

1. Reiterate Taraskovya's support to Pantocratoria as an allied government.
2. Offer what diplomatic assistance is required. N.B. : Taraskovya has extremely limited leverage upon Allanea.
3. Refrain from severing diplomatic relations or taking any steps into this direction as long as the Pantocratorians are not doing the same.

For your approval.

Head of 3rd Directorate
Vashinin A. V.

* - * - *

Electronic stamp:
Matter concerns war & peace in Pantocratoria. Forwarded to the Vasilevs for approval.
- Foreign Affairs Minister Alexei of Var-Vilena and Southern Aphyr

* - * - *

Electronic stamp:
APPROVED.
To the Foreign Ministry for follow up.
- Mikhail VASILEVS

[Pantocratoria]

Adrienople Morning Herald
Government pursues telecoms treaty
Foreign Minister Sir Cyrus Fastonville KPE confirmed today that Pantocratoria is negotiating a treaty with New Edom "and other nations" which will address the prevention and prosecution of crimes which use international telecommunications networks as a carrier service.

Under the terms of the treaty being negotiated, signatories would share evidence collected at both ends of a telephone call, Internet connection or messaging service to support the prevention and prosecution of crimes occurring in one or both countries.

In recent months the Imperial Government has been accused by domestic critics of inventing new types of telecommunications crime by prosecuting, for example, teenage "sexters" with distribution of child pornography over the telecommunications service.

The Foreign Minister strenuously denied that the treaty would apply specifically to sexting and indicated the general tolerance of nudity in the New Edomite religious sects as illustration that such a specific application would be "problematic".

Senior Foreign Ministry aides also hinted to the Herald that the Government is in talks with other nations, including some of Pantocratoria's regional allies, to extend the treaty to them as well.

Although the text of the treaty has not been released yet since it is not finalised, the Minister confirmed to the media that the treaty required that "due process of law be followed" in the collection of evidence from telecommunications carriers and Internet service providers, and that the treaty "creates no new classes of crime".

The Minister explained that the treaty was especially important in "the protection of our young people from online predators and vices", since "unlike in our day, the youth of today are exposed to predators beyond our shores" through the Internet and ubiquitous telecommunications.

The draft text of the treaty is expected to be released before Parliament rises for the Christmas break.

[Pantocratoria]

Reichsburg International Airport
Reichskamphen

The aircraft delivering Princess Marie landed in its proper turn, among civilian aircraft as they normally land. Nothing would be suggesting a reason to worry, right as they made it down through the dismount sleeve.

There they would discover the security arrangements augmented. Instead of policemen and civilian security, Reichsburg International Airport had been reinforced by Gendarmes - paramilitary police in grey camouflage with battle rifles and submachineguns. On their heads they wore riot helmets that seemed unreasonably bulky and uncomfortable, steel visors concealing their faces.

One of the men was not wearing a helmet. He was an Allanean and not a Reichskamphenite. As Marie and her escorts came out, he waved them to come near. Princess Marie was not unduly alarmed by any of this. It was not uncommon for the police riot squad to supplement security at the Pantocratorian embassy in the Resurgent Dream back when she had been a very young and inexperienced ambassador, and she assumed that many Reichskamphenites would probably have much stronger anti-Pantocratorian feelings than Caldan ratbag lefty radicals. Accompanied by her six foot five blonde-haired Scandinavian-looking chief bodyguard, Lt Stig Erikssen of the Varangian Guard, who was dressed in a plain black suit rather than a uniform, she approached the helmetless gentleman waving her over. She was about average height, but very slender. It was plain from her face that she was underweight, but she was also wearing New Rome Court Fashion, and a particularly tight corset even by the standards of the Pantocratorian court besides. Her hoop-skirted gown was very pale blue, and covered with pearls which were affixed to the fabric by little golden hooks - they wobbled and jiggled as she moved. The arms of the dress ended around her elbows in wide sleeves lined with white lace, and she wore a bracelet of gold-mounted pearls on her left wrist which matched the gown, but no rings on her fingers. Her
mahogany brown hair was pulled up and done in little ringlets which were allowed to dangle, along with matching gold and pearl earrings, and around her little neck was a pearl choker. She must have changed on the plane because there was clearly no way she could have worn this outfit for the long flight from Pantocratoria.

“You!” - the Allanean shouted at the Varangian, in a rude tone - “I am Lieutenant John Hammon, Greater Prussian Gendarmerie! This isn’t Allanea, down here it’s not legal to carry firearms in airport secure zones. Remove the holster slowly and kick it over in my direction!”

Erikssen frowned, and motioned for the Princess to distance herself a little from him. He held his arms out from his torso so that Hammon could see he hadn’t drawn a weapon.

“We’re a diplomatic flight so I had assumed the usual procedures would not apply to us.” Erikssen called back. His English had an interesting combination accent. “Lieutenant Stig Erikssen, Imperial Protection Service. I have one pistol in a holster under my left arm. Is it necessary to kick it over to you, or can I hand it to you?”

“You are not a diplomatic flight.” - the Allanean replied, enunciating every word carefully, as if he was addressing a formation of troops - “Two hours ago, Pantocratoria was formally redesignated by the Allanean Department of State, and thus by the Reichskamphenite Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as a slaver state. You are nothing but a pirate gang, traveling with their molly. Are we clear? Now kick your weapons over here if you don’t want to spend the night in jail!”

“But monsieur, this very matter was the reason we came!” Princess Marie now protested. She spoke English with an almost Caldan accent, but wasn’t familiar enough with every idiom to understand what a molly was. “The Department of State knew we were coming, how could this declaration have been made before we had even arrived?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m a police officer, not a diplomats. Now, put your guns on the ground and kick them in my direction, or this police encounter is going to become highly educational to all of you. What, you don’t like your guns taken away? Neither did Tourniques, I bet.”

“Lieutenant, please, surrender your weapons to this… police officer.” Marie instructed Erikssen with as much grace as she could muster in the face of Hammon’s brusque manners.

“Your Highness.” Erikssen acknowledged.

Glaring at Hammon, Erikssen slowly reached down to pull back the left side of his jacket so the police officer could see the holstered semi-automatic, which he withdrew with his right hand, very slowly, and then placed it on the ground in front of him. He kicked it across to Hammon, then looked back to the other two guards behind him, and nodded to them. They repeated the process. The only other members of Marie’s party, a maid and a lady in waiting, both looked frightened. The Varangians looked angry and suspicious. Marie, for her part, tried to project an air of calm.

“May we go now, Lieutenant?” Marie asked Hammon.

“I imagine Miss Marmoutier asked the same question.” - Hammond replied - “Did your police lieutenants let her go?”

“Are we under arrest, then?” Marie asked, incredulously.

“In a world of fairness, I would treat you the same as your people did the Feurvel inmates.” - the Lieutenant said, clearly enjoying the effect this was having on Marie.

“We came to discuss this matter with the Emperor of Greater Prussia, sir, not a gendarme.” Marie responded defensively. “His Majesty the Emperor is expecting us.”

“Yes, this is why I cannot shave your head. A pity.” - the Allanean said - “Very well, women on the right, men on the left.”

A female police officer appeared, dressed merely in a light-grey police uniform and carrying a pistol and a police baton. “This here is Greta Alghausen, she will search the ladies, and Fritz here,” - he motioned to a male constable in the same outfit - “will search the men. Pat down, metal detector, then you can go on. Move along!”

The Pantocratorians divided into the requested gender divide, the women more in a state of unease than the men, who just looked angry. Marie was pondering the metal detector and wondering whether her dress would pass through it or not. She spread her arms out for Alghausen to pat her down, and her lady in waiting and handmaid followed suit.

After a brief - but no doubt irritating - search, in which the women were made to remove their shoes, and the men - their shoes and their belts, to put any small coins they had into separate small plastic baskets, and so forth, Marie was taken aside.

“I am sorry, Ma’am,” -Alghausen said - “We will need to take you to a separate room so we can remove your skirt.”

“Why are you being sorry for?” - the Allanean Lieutenant asked - “You’re not the slaver.”

“I’ll need my ladies.” Marie blanched. “Is this really necessary? I am hardly going to carry a weapon! I wouldn’t know what to do with one.”

“Rules are rules, Ma’am,” - Lieutenant replied - “Your ignorance is hardly a reason to waive a routine search.”

That sounded Pantocratorian. Marie went along with Alghausen to the separate room, but looked to her lady and her maid, and repeated “I’ll need my ladies, constable. To get out of my gown and back into it, I’ll need help.”

“I can get you out of this gown.” - the policewoman replied. Her square face did not conceal the fact this was a deliberate cruel joke. - “Can’t promise anything about getting back in, though. After your... servants are searched as well they can help you get dressed.”

Marie accepted the indignity as stoically as she could, and entered the private room with Alghausen. She turned her back to the officer, revealing ribbons of light blue silk running down her spine.

“Can you please untie these?” the Princess asked the police officer. “There are layers, I’m sorry.”

“I understand. Lots of noble girls here wear this as well,” - Alghausen said, and began to untie the ribbons, her thick, short fingers working with surprising nimbleness as she freed the Princess body from its cage. - “Just be careful and don’t break a rib with it. It does happen sometimes.”

The police officer helped her first out of the silk and pearl outer layer, then the corset, at which point Marie could slip out of her hoopskirt. Underneath the layers of old world finery, she wore a corset liner (a bra was not necessary due to the corset itself), and a perfectly ordinary pair of panties. Near naked, she was painfully thin, and Alghausen would have seen her lower ribs, which she had just warned Marie against breaking with an over-tightened corset, exposed underneath the corset liner, easily visible through her skin. Her hips were similarly boney.

“No weapons.” Marie said simply.

After everyone else was similarly searched, the handmaidens were allowed to help Marie get dressed. Outside, they would be greeted by a long, black limousine, which took them without incident towards Reichsburg itself. The city had been renovated vastly - not to anyone’s surprise, since it had been destroyed utterly in the Second Prussian Civil War. The city center had been built anew, the old palaces reconstructed painstakingly from photographs and archived plans, and the hotel district - where Marie would be headed - was intended by regulation to be similar visually to the old Imperial buildings. (Reichskamphen was somewhat less libertarian in this extent than Allanea, and Reichsburg city bylaws were overseen by the Imperial Heritage Authority).

Thus was Hotel Imperial - merely twelve stories, decorated in an elaborate baroque style, guarded for Marie’s sake by troops in gleaming parade uniforms that looked to have emerged right out of the 18th century.

“Your hotel, Ma’am.” - the car’s automated voice system informed.

“Thank goodness.” Marie sighed in relief as the car had pulled up. The long car ride had given her a chance to settle down after the indignity of being stripped to her undergarments at the airport, although the guards and the ladies alike were edgy.

An hotel worker - his uniform even more resplendent than that of the troops - approached the car, and the door opened automatically. - “Greetings, Ma’am, welcome to Reichsburg.”

“Thank you.” Marie told the man as she disembarked by the car, followed by Erikssen and then the rest.

One had to say in favor of the Prussians that they had prepared for their guests a gesture of hospitality, which had not been canceled on account of the Pantocratorians’ new status. Five luxurious hotel rooms had been prepared, with Marie’s Royal Suite a story higher than the other four rooms, decorated in the expected splendour. Reichskamphenites were great fans of gold ruffles, beige bedsheets, painted ceilings with scenes of cupids and angels, and of course for Marie there was a giant bed with gilded bedposts and gold-and-silver stitched screens that might allow it to close itself off from the outside world. There was even an exciting-looking game console with a gleaming motion tracker device mounted on top of it.

Marie, therefore, sighed again in relief and delight as she entered her room. Erikssen followed her into the room and immediately began a search, probably being a little more thorough than usual because he felt naked without his gun, and useless besides after the unpleasantness of the airport.

“Oh, Stig, what are you doing?” Marie asked the man as he searched the room.

“Searching the room, mademoiselle.” Erikssen replied. “There might be bugs or hidden cameras.”

“Why would anybody want… oh fine.” Marie gave up arguing with him and let him do his job.

“I don’t like that they disarmed us.” Erikssen complained.

“Did you see the security outside? We’ll be fine.” Marie replied.

“Maybe against protesters and the like…” Erikssen said dubiously. “I’m more worried about them.”

“Stig, really.” Marie waved away his concerns. “This sort of nonsense at the airport, however ridiculous or embarrassing it can be, and I like to think I had more cause to be upset than you, mind, it’s just officious little men and their protocol, you know?”

“If you say so, mademoiselle.” Stig Erikssen replied dubiously as he searched through the wardrobe. “I should search this again after your things have been unpacked for you.”

“As you like.” Marie nodded. “Well, this seems lovely anyway. I might have some tea, then perhaps we’ll go for a stroll?”

“I’d rather you didn’t do that, mademoiselle.” Erikssen told her.

“Why not?” Marie frowned.

“I’m unarmed.” Erikssen shook his head as if it was perfectly obvious. “If somebody tries something…”

“Oh stop!” Marie insisted. “I’m sure one of those fellows in the splendid uniforms outside can be persuaded to come with us if it makes you feel better.”

“Only marginally.” Erikssen answered, concluding his search. “By your leave, mademoiselle.”

Naturally, the Grenadiers in their tall hats refused to abandon their posts. They had clear orders, and nobody had come to relieve them in absence of their senior commander, and so on, and so forth, as soldiers usually say in these circumstances. The senior commander was a young, excitable Lieutenant, who was not authorized to reduce the Princess’ guard, and his commander did not pick up the phone, all things Erikssen no doubt would have been unsurprised by if he’d had any military experience at all, which of course he had.

When Princess Marie came downstairs with her lady-in-waiting, she found Erikssen and the two guards waiting in the lobby.

“Shall we?” Marie asked cheerily.

“As I feared, mademoiselle, they can’t spare anybody.” Erikssen warned her.

“Oh well, I’m quite sure the three of you will be enough to scare off anybody who wants to throw eggs at me or the like.” Marie told him. “Besides, it’s all very upmarket around here, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“I wish I shared your confidence, mademoiselle.” Erikssen replied stiffly.

“Just a short walk, then.” Marie conceded him that much, and then led them out the front of the hotel.

Outside, they would see a city that would have been lovely if not for their place in it as unwelcome, nearly-criminal visitors. It seemed that the twentieth, much less the twenty-first, century had never happened in Reichsburg (naturally, no trace could be seen of the atomic detonation that had once leveled the city). Everywhere one could see the work of architects and restoration experts that had constructed their buildings in such a way that the modern implements merged seamlessly into them, not visible behind the ruffles, pillars, basreliefs and other elements of outdated design.

“You’d have never thought what happened here.” Marie sighed to her lady in waiting.

“No, mademoiselle.” agreed Françoise de Persandry, Marie’s lady-in-waiting.

“We should stay close by the hotel, mademoiselle.” Erikssen warned, his eyes darting suspiciously from one pillar to the next.

Nothing seemed suspicious so far. A boy with short, black wavy hair seemed to be seated at one of the pillars, watching the traffic as it passed by. It was limited, to be fair - a few cars, some light rail carriages, and sometimes - a traditional nobleman’s carriage drawn by a pair of horses.

“It’s good to have some fresh air…” Marie declared, but decided it was time to finally give in to Erikssen’s constant urgings to return to the hotel. Rather than continue down the broad promenade, she turned towards a side alley which seemed like it would take them back around the back of the hotel. “But let’s loop back, shall we?”

As they looped back, they would see a pair of street urchins, laying down on elderly mattresses at the side of the alley. Their faces were smeared with dirt, and they could not have been older than fifteen, though their disheveled condition might have made them look younger. Behind them, the boy with the black, wavy hair was following into the alley as well.

Marie was disturbed by the sudden display of poverty so close to the opulent Hotel Imperial. She touched Erikssen’s arm briefly.

“Give those boys some money.” she told him. “They shouldn’t have to sleep in the street.”

“We should keep going, mademoiselle.” Erikssen said in irritation.

“Stig!” Marie insisted. “You’re carrying money, aren’t you?”

“Nielsen,” Erikssen said to one of the other guards in irritation. He pulled out a wallet and withdrew several, large notes, at least several hundred Crowns worth. “Go give this to those boys and tell them to get off the street.”

Nielsen obeyed, and approached the urchins on the mattresses with the money in hand. The exchange had been sufficiently distracting that Erikssen hadn’t seen the boy with the black, wavy hair get closer.

One of the urchins whimpered audibly as the guard approached him. His eyes were brilliant, sapphire-blue, and it was clear from his demeanor he’d been crying lately. Yet, as Nielsen approached, he looked the man straight in the eye, waiting for him to bend down and take the money.

“From the lady.” Nielsen told the boy, as he knelt down and held out the money.

“Let’s move so he doesn’t take it as an invitation to come over…” Erikssen urged Marie, even going so far as to take her hand and pull her gently away from the urchins in the meantime.

“Don’t move.” - the urchin said, his voice calm. - “My companion behind you is holding a Fulmine Piccolo under his jacket.”

Nielsen dropped the cash and turned to see the supposedly armed companion. Erikssen, still tugging Marie down the alley, didn’t actually notice the act of charity going pear-shaped, but the other Varangian did. He instinctively reached for where his gun should be only to find his holster empty.

The two urchins got up, walking carefully along the wall to avoid the firing line of the supposed Fulmine Piccolo. They were dressed in torn, dirty clothing that looked as if it had come out of a thrift shop, and knit hats that concealed most of their hair - although some treacherous strands of golden-blond could still be seen escaping from under the blue-eyed boy’s hat. He looked at Erikssen: “The fellow with the black hair is my accomplice. He is armed with a Fulmine Piccolo. You know what Fulmine Piccolo is, right? It is a tiny, pump-action shotgun. If my comrade fires it even once... I feel you do not need my proposition elaborated upon, sir.”

Erikssen now pulled Marie behind him swiftly. “I suppose you’re in league with that cockroach at the airport who disarmed us?”

Nielsen and the third Varangian, Smith, watched on closely for a sign from their commander.

“Only in the sense that - as a robber - the people who disarm my victims are my natural allies.” - the boy said - “I certainly have no intent to share my profits with airport personnel.” - he stepped into the center of the alley, keeping the Pantocratorians between himself and the ostensible shotgun. “I am a freelance operator, sir, a protester against social injustice if you may.” - he unsheathed his own weapon - an enormous, fixed-blade knife. - “Inequality, sir. Unfairness, sir.”

“You’re Reichskampheren Robin Hood.” Erikssen snorted. He threw the wallet in the direction of the bladed youth. “Here’s all the cash we’re carrying with us. Go protest against injustice somewhere else.”

“Do you count me for a fool, sir? You are offering me cash, when your slaver-princess is festooned with ill-gotten jewelry? What!” - the boy seemed offended, kicking at the wallet as if it was a mockery of him - “The pearls! The earrings, the bracelet, the necklace!” - he pronounced the word ‘necklace’ as if the very concept of necklaces caused him physical pain.

“I count you for a worm and a coward and if you think to come near my lady with that knife I will rip off your fucking arm and beat you to death with it.” Erikssen snarled.

“They have a gun, you’re unarmed!” Marie protested from behind him, terrified but not so fuelled by testosterone as her bodyguard.

“Thank you, Your Most Pedophilic Highness, you understand the issue directly.” - the boy continued. “Now, please stand directly on top of this mattress, and the rest of you, please stand at the other side of the alley. We will attempt to relieve you of these pearls swiftly.” - he paused. For a moment, he felt almost sorry for the helpless woman, and continued “How many rooms do you have at your home in Pantocratoria?”

“What do you mean, my home?” Marie asked as she complied with the instruction. Erikssen grabbed her again and started to pull her back. “Stig! Let me go! That’s an order.”

“Damn you!” Erikssen snarled at her, but let her go. He glared at the boy in impotent warning.

Marie stood on top of the mattress, trembling but trying to calm herself.

Carefully, the other urchin began to remove the pearls that were attached to her hoop skirt, and meanwhile the robbers’ leader repeated.

“Your palace. Where you live. How many rooms do you have in it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Marie answered truthfully. There was no one palace she lived in all year around anyway, nowhere that was really home as a building - home was wherever her mother and father were, but even without this complication, she literally had no idea how many rooms the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator had. “Maybe thousands?”

“Thousands?” - the boy asked incredulously - “You. Have. Thousands of rooms?”

“Not me personally.” Marie answered. The process of removing the hundreds of pearls from her dress would naturally take some time, during which her early resolve and courage would be sorely tested by the creeping sense of violation and vulnerability. “You mean my apartments?”

“Yes. Yes. Your apartments, where you live as Princess of Pantocratoria, how many rooms do you have in them?”

“Uhh… usually… about three?” Marie estimated. “And a bathroom and maybe some little rooms. Depending.”

“Some little rooms?” - he wondered - “And what do you mean by ‘more than usually’?”

“I’m not always in the same place.” Marie answered. She covered her eyes for a moment as she tried to avoid crying at the indignity of her dress being picked clean for pearls. “And little rooms, like bathrooms, servant rooms, I don’t know… Why are you asking me these things?”

“Not always in the same place? Are you saying you have more than one palace?” - the boy inquired incredulously.

“I live in a lot of different places.” Marie replied. Her tone had descended to a whine as the other boy continued to pluck pearls off her gown. “I go where my parents go. Or where the Queen goes when I’m in Caldas.”

“Oh the poor, poor thing.” - he said, mocking her. - “You only have three palaces to live in. Or four, is it? Let me guess, you’re also not shackled through your day, are you?”

“Why are you asking me these things?” Marie protested more than asked.

The boy gulped, as if choking back tears. “Because I am interested. Yes, that’s the ticket.” - he removed the bracelet from her hand. - “Very interested.”

“Don’t touch her!” Erikssen snarled.

“Most of the year, when I am in Pantocratoria, I stay with my parents at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator.” Marie told the boy, although he was mocking her. “When I am in the Caldan Union, I stay in whatever palace the Queen is staying it at the time. My rooms are a little different in each place. Is your interest satisfied?”

“No!” - he called out, as if she had hurt him - “Tell me about your servants!”

“Uhh…” Marie stammered. “They’re… usually different, in each place. I have one maid servant who follows me everywhere. She’s at the hotel now. Other than her, it depends on the palace. Really, do you…” she sighed. It was hard to breathe heavily given how tightly her corset had been laced, and right now focussing on breathing was what she needed to do to avoid losing her composure altogether.

“And these maidens?” - he motioned at them with his knife - “What are they?”

“My maid servant?” Marie asked. “She’s… an ordinary woman? Do you mean is she a slave? She’s an employee.”

“I understand they are not slaves, I am not a republican who hears ‘servant’ as ‘slave’.” - the boy said, and sniffled - “And I bet you have named regiments you’re patron of, like the Emperor does.”

“Yes.” Marie nodded. “In XXX Legion.”

“See.” - the boy was visibly upset now - “See. A terrible slaver bitch like you has palaces and personal regiments and things.”

At this stage, his friend had finished removing the pearls from the dress.

"I'm not a slaver." Marie objected meekly. "Those pearls were a birthday present."

“And you get to wear necklaces, too.” - the boy placed finger along the pearl choker. - “It is not magic, is it?”

Erikssen ground his teeth watching on, seething with rage as the "urchin" placed his fingers on Marie's neck. Marie shook her head, the fear and indignity written plain on her face.

"The latch is at the back." Marie said in resignation.

“I know how to open a necklace!” - the boy snapped - “I was hoping I could see if there was an enchantment.” - he undid the latch with surprising expertise for a boy, and placed the choker in his pocket. - “I will have a use for this thing one day, I swear. Now, hand me the earrings, and you can- you can go then.” - he was struggling to fight back tears now.

"Why... Why are you so upset?" Marie asked. She wondered if the boy was going to kill her but was having second doubts. She undid her left earring first - a surprisingly heavy gold and pearl construction - as she asked.

“Why is that any business of yours?!” - he asked, shoving the earring into a shirt pocket - “I am not upset either! Give me the other earring!”

"Please," Marie asked, as she hurried complied with the instruction and took off her other earring. "Don't." She handed him the pearl earring. "Please, just let us go."

“Anything else that is shiny?” - he asked, looking somewhat away from her.

Marie looked down at her shoes, which were the same blue as her gown, stitched with gold thread in patterns similar to the patterned golden hooks which had once joined the pearls to her dress. She looked back up at the boy.

"Uhh..." she sighed. "My shoes?"

“Die in a fire.” - he said, “What good are your shoes to me? They’re sized for your feet. Go away now.”

Marie breathed a sigh of relief, and tottered off the mattress back to Erikssen, who was nearly as angry with her as he was with her assailants. Erikssen glared at the chief thief in silent rage.

“You are still here.” - the boy pointed out, and then sat down on the empty mattress - “I don’t imagine you are going to try and detain me for the police under the watchful eye of my comrades. Leave please.”

"Let's go." Erikssen told Marie and the rest of the group. As they withdrew, Marie nearly collapsed, and Erikssen had to catch her then half-walk, half-carry her out of the alleyway.

As their attackers withdrew as well, the boy with the wavy, black hair tossed in a small object onto the ground that had so far been hidden under his jacket - a short length of plastic pipe that had so far been used to pose as a Fulmine Piccolo.

[Pantocratoria]

The Winter Palace
Reichsburg
Reichskamphen

The next morning, Marie, Françoise and Erikssen emerged from the hotel to take the car to Marie’s meeting with the Emperor of Greater Prussia, and President-for-Life of Allanea, the alternately celebrated and infamous Alexander Kazansky. The car - automated as the one that carried them to the hotel, and decorated with a single flashing blue light, like a police light but only in a single color - carried them through the city center. The well-cobbled streets were almost bereft of cars, as private vehicles were banned from the historical city center. As it approached the Winter Palace, they could see troops in ceremonial uniforms - heavy boots, white pants, and dark-green shirts on which white belts crossed each other in an X arrangement, tall hats with black plumages, and wood-stocked battle rifles with fixed bayonets.

The ornate gates opened, and they went through a palace yard. Within it, they passed two dozen Cossacks in black outfits, dozens of tiny daggers arrayed on their chests, shashkas in gold-decorated scabbards at their sides. Finally, in an inner yard, they were greeted by troops from yet another regiment, in black parade uniforms and broad-brimmed Stetson hats. They did not salute as Marie left her vehicle. The Princess wore another gown in the fashion of the Pantocratorian court at New Rome, this one of crimson silk criss-crossed with silver thread, although not as ornamented as her now pearl-less blue dress had been before she had been set upon by the urchins of Reichsburg. Perhaps compensating for this, she wore probably a hundred thousand of ducats worth of diamonds, which glittered around her neck in a loose necklace which extended down to the tops of her modest breasts. Françoise de Persandry also wore a New Rome court fashion dress today, this one a dark green in which the blonde would have looked stunning if she had not been next to Marie with her obscene display of diamonds. Stig Erikssen, as ever, wore a black suit, and a supremely suspicious look upon his Nordic brow. He motioned for the footmen to take several large boxes, which were wrapped and decorated as gifts in white and violet fabrics.

Several Cossacks emerged from the palace, taking the boxes from Stig, and carried them in. Then, Marie was encouraged to pass into the palace (Stig was not). Inside it, it was an endless range of corridors and rooms, decorated with the same excess of the Reichskamphenite court. At the sides of the hallways, precious works of art, ancient suits of armor and pieces of sculpture were exhibited, and the palace was clearly less of a dwelling and more of a museum. The Emperor did not live here truly, but today he would accept a guest. Leaving Erikssen behind, the two ladies made their way through the museum-like corridors of the palace.

“Remember the way we have come, Françoise.” Marie told her lady in waiting. “After we’ve presented the gifts, I shall probably ask you to leave, and you may have to find your way back to Stig by yourself. I am not sure how much assistance people will be willing to be.”

“I’ll be fine, mademoiselle.” Françoise replied confidently.

At length, they came to the end of the hallways.

The Autumn Throne Room was resplendent and immense, done up in gold and ember, square malachite and marble plates used in a diagonal checkers formation on the floor. On the two thrones up ahead, the Imperial Couple awaited - Alexander Kazansky, in a black military uniform with golden shoulderboards and a black cape, his gold-plated pistols of office at his side denoting his title as President. At his side, his wife wore a Greater Prussian dress uniform, with golden epaulets, at her sides - a sword and a strange, curved knife, less of a ceremonial weapon and more of a viciously-useful device. Both wore surprisingly identical golden circlets, and both wore black-framed glasses. Both had black hair, his short, her waving down to her shoulders.

“Greetings, Marie.” - the woman spoke, her black eyes boring into the Princess’, the diamonds clearly attracting her attention.

Princess Marie and Françoise de Persandry both curtseyed deeply, so deeply that their over-sized skirts seemed to flatten against the floor and an onlooker might think that the legs beneath those skirts had disappeared. Nevertheless, their backs and necks remained perfectly straight, although their eyes were downcast.

“Your Imperial Majesties.” Marie returned their greetings. Neither woman rose, nor looked up, but awaited permission to do so, as was customary in the presence of their own Emperor.

Cassiopeia smiled briefly, as she enjoyed this form of attention more than her husband, but Alexander said. “Rise, please.”

Cassiopeia added: “It is a very nice necklace.” - if her words could form into poison, they’d have eaten through the floor and gone three levels down.

“It’s yours, Majesty.” Marie said at once, as she rose and permitted herself to look up at the enthroned figures. Ordinarily this would be an empty gesture, but something in Cassiopeia’s tone prompted Marie to reach straight for the latch at the back of her neck and begin to unfasten the glittering piece.

“Thank you, Marie.” - Cassiopeia said, her voice only slightly warmer. - “I shall have it placed in my vaults under Leyfield for safe-keeping, and perhaps one day-” - she stopped.

“Certainly one day it shall see light again.” - her husband said. - “I am thankful, on my wife’s behalf.” - he did not mention he could have seized the necklace off her neck easily, nay, kill her off-hand and face no legal consequence. The offer was regardless touching.

Marie finished unfastening the necklace. She was a little surprised that first of all, the offer had been accepted, but most of all, that it sounded like the necklace would just be tossed into a vault of treasure somewhere and not even worn. Nevertheless none of this showed on her face as she removed the necklace, leaving her neck and shoulders bare, and held it in her hands before her.

“Might I approach, Majesty?” Marie asked permission to present the gift to Cassiopeia. Ordinarily, even in Pantocratoria, she would not have continued to address them as Majesty after the first greeting, but she had been advised that this might be unwise, and so continued to use the style.

“Yes, Marie.” - Cassiopeia said, accepting the necklace. - “Let us commence with the pleasantries first, and move on to business. What are those... boxes you have brought us?”

“Gifts, Majesty.” Marie answered, becoming aware that she was being addressed exclusively by her Christian name and wondering why. “From His Majesty the Emperor, my uncle.” As opposed to my necklace, from me. “For both of Your Majesties, and, if it please Your Majesty, for Her Highness the Princess Imperial. May I have leave to present them, please Your Majesties?”

“A gift for my daughter?” - Cassiopeia said - “I would like to see it. Sadly, I cannot grant you today the priceless joy of meeting her, but I can receive it on her behalf.”

“By your leave.” Marie curtseyed again, and then she and Françoise went over to the boxes. They both picked up one of the three boxes, this box about one-a-half feet long and nearly as wide, not large, although it seemed to be heavy for the two of them to carry, especially Marie. They set it before the Empress.

“A gift for Her Imperial Highness, Your Majesty.” Marie addressed Cassiopeia. “Shall I open it?”

“Yes, please do.” - Cassiopeia said, and descended from the steps of her throne to approach the box.

Marie pulled the violet ribbons, until they fell away, and then pulled away the white cloth underneath, revealing a box in white-padded leather, with a hinged top. The hinges too Marie undid, and then the box folded backwards and down, revealing inside a glittering miniature stage coach, made of silver, with gold trimming around the windows and seat, attached to two painted crystal horses by a gold yoke and trace set. The carriage was, on close inspection, articulated, with doors that opened, gold and silver wheels which really moved, and an undergear which permitted the whole assembly to turn however it might be positioned for display. Conceivably, it might even be used as a toy, but it was surely too precious for that. Nevertheless, it would have fit two dolls as passengers and one as a footman, about the same size as many popular commercial play dolls. Marie, who had seen it back in New Rome, thought it was delightful, but now she was nervous about what Cassiopeia would think about it, and looked up at her once the “unboxing” was complete.

“It is lovely.” - Cassiopeia said - “It shall no doubt fit my daughter’s Eniya dolls.”

“It is like the clock which Uncle Ranisath told me about.” - Alexander said.

“And I am sure it was a lovely clock and I am only sorry our Feathered Marvel does not possess one.” - Cassiopeia replied, as she crouched next to the toy. “Thank you, Marie, it is most lovely.”

“I…” Marie was surprised. “I brought a clock, by some coincidence…” Did they know? “But for you, Your Majesty.” She had given away the surprise. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that before… shall I present it now?”

“Yes, of course, of course!” - Cassiopeia clapped her hands - “I will of course give it to my daughter if this cause no offense, if it is half as lovely as I am told, then would fit well in my daughter’s rooms! A clock!”

The ladies went off to retrieve another box - about as high but twice as wide as the gift for Princess Rheya - and struggled with it back to Cassiopeia. They set it down, and Marie undid the ribbons and pulled back the cloth as before, and this time removed a box-shaped cover to reveal the clock. And, indeed, it was a clock, made by Pantocratorian master clockmakers, but a rare one at that. Its housing of gold and glass encircled a conventional clockface, but the mechanism (visible through a glass panel behind) ran down into a large base of French-polished oak, with a golden top. The real feature of the clock was the top of this base - it was built as a model ballroom, complete with little golden figures of dancers - men and women coupled, positioned as if about to waltz. Dozens of barely perceivable lines criss-crossed the surface.

"I'll wind it so you can see the mechanism, Your Majesty." Marie offered.

The Princess opened a side panel from which she retrieved a brass key, which she placed in the back of the base of the clock underneath the glass panel reveal the clock’s innards. She turned the keys several times, and the clock (which was set to a few seconds before 12) moved to life. The minute hand struck the twelve, and a clockwork chime started, playing the tune of a Viennese Waltz. The golden dancers now moved, mostly gracefully, through the nine positions of the dance, moving about the base, travelling along the criss crossing lines a close observer would have marked already.

“The music lasts longer the closer to twelve o’clock, when it is longest, and is shorter on the hours after that.” Marie explained. “The volume can be changed by tensioning something, I believe. There are some instructions in one of these little drawers. A gift for Your Majesty, from the Emperor of Pantocratoria.”

Cassiopeia passed one hand over the gold housing, and for a moment knelt next to the device, as if caressing it. She was smiling, and suddenly a single tear rolled down her cheek. “Thank you, Marie. Thank you. You no longer need to call me ‘Your Imperial Majesty’. Lady Blaken-Kazansky will do just fine, or just ‘Lady Blaken’ if that is too much of a mouthful.” - she pressed her palm to the cold metal of the clock, and fell silent.

“Thank you, Lady Blaken-Kazansky.” Marie said, some relief audible in her voice. She daren’t drop the Kazansky part of the name for fear of angering the Emperor-President, who was still looking down on them from his throne, and whom she feared would be impossible to please with a gift. She looked up at him nevertheless, not meeting his gaze, of course, and addressed him. “Your Imperial Majesty, by your leave, I would present His Most Catholic Majesty’s gift to Your Imperial Majesty.”

“His Most Catholic Majesty’s gift is no doubt something quite curious.” - Alexander said.

Marie took that for leave and she and Françoise hurried off to retrieve the last box. This one was about the same size as Rheya’s gift, but seemed heavier, as both women strained with this load, not just Marie. It was set down in front of the Emperor of Greater Prussia, and Marie found herself breathing rapidly, short, shallow breaths because of her restrictive corset, not because she was tired from carrying the box such a short way, but because she found herself more nervous about this than the previous two. She pulled away the outer wrapping, revealing another white, padded-leather box, which she unhinged, and folded down, revealing a jewelled golden box, inlaid with the arms of the Greater Prussian Empire in platinum. She carefully opened the hinged lid, revealing inside eight jewelled eggs, each in bright and brilliantly coloured gems, lined with gold, and hinged to permit their opening. Marie reached in, remembering to open the deep purple coloured egg first, and inside, the Emperor could recognize a tiny model in white gold of the very building in which they were now meeting.

“Reichsburg, New Geneva…” Marie said, passing her hand over the other eggs but not opening them. “Eight of the great cities of Reichskamphen, each with its own egg, each containing a miniature of its most famous landmark, from the Emperor of Pantocratoria, to Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Thank you.” - Alexander said drily - “I imagine you are, however, here for business.”

Marie took this as the indication that the Emperor wanted to move beyond the pleasantries stage of the evening, which in fairness, had only been briefly pleasant, and half-curtseyed and nodded her response.

“With your leave, Your Majesty,” she addressed him. “I shall send my lady away so that Your Imperial Majesties may speak freely.”

“That would be absolutely best.” - Alexander said. - “I have Imperial secrets to reveal to you.”

This actually seemed unlikely to Marie, but she had expected to talk with them in private anyway, so despite any trepidation she might otherwise have felt, she sent Françoise away, and the lady in waiting made her way back towards Erikssen. Her friend now dispatched, Marie curtseyed again to the Emperor and Empress of Greater Prussia.

“Your Imperial Majesties, at your service.” she said, giving them the first opportunity to say anything.

“Let’s be fair here. Your country has been declared a slaver state. Normally Pantocratorians would ignore Allaneans’ opinion on this topic, except we hold the ability to confiscate Peacock Motors’ facilities, which means we have the opportunity to arm-wrestle you into some modest legislative changes.” - Alexander spoke calmly.

“As Your Majesty says.” Marie nodded in agreement. She was not naive about the Government’s ties to Peacock Motors. “If I may be so bold, I had hoped that the declaration would not have been made prior to this meeting. I had hoped to demonstrate to Your Imperial Majesties that there need not be such ill-will between our Houses. Please, tell me how I can be of service.”

“Let us be brief. Obviously you must abolish the Heir Exemption. Second, abolish the dress code, third, an amnesty for Feurvel inmates, fourth, the fine that you have recently instituted for firearms offenses. Fifth, and easiest, the requirement for telcos to monitor image messaging and your withdrawal from that godawful treaty your people have been negotiating with New Edom.” - Alexander spoke. - “This is the barest minimum.”

“Your Majesty, surely these matters have been discussed with the Ambassador in Allanea?” Marie asked. She already knew that this list was not the ‘barest minimum’ as the Emperor had claimed - years of playing cards with ladies at court led her to believe that Kazansky was overplaying his hand.

“Nope. I am a dick.”

“The Ambassador speaks for the Government…” Marie said. Did he really say that? “But I know something of the Government’s thinking. I humbly suggest to Your Imperial Majesty that since, as I understand the concerns expressed by the State Department, it is the Heir Exemption which forms the basis of the absurd classification of Pantocratoria as a slaver state, that its repeal or abolition alone would be adequate for this classification to be removed.”

“I don’t believe so. In essence, because I believe you would keep the structures that maintain the oppression of noblewomen in Pantocratoria - you will keep them, regardless, just traditional instead of illegal. I am not negotiating, Marie. I am giving an ultimatum, sign an agreement or I will throw you away, sell off Peacock Motors’ factories from auction, and never even think of the name of the Pantocratorians’ again.” - Alexander returned to his throne, and waited calmly.

“The dress code was part of the Government’s election manifesto.” Marie answered. It was not as restrictive as when her father had been Chancellor either, but she didn’t add that. “And the inmates of Feurvel are convicted criminals. Just because you hav-”

“I do not care. I am not arguing for morality. I am arguing for ‘I have my hand on your country’s financial balls’. If you happen to be feeling powerless and dealt with unfairly, so did Charlotte Marmoutier.”

“Your Imperial Majesty, with very great respect,” Marie replied. “You perhaps make a mistake that some of our politicians also make, of conflating Peacock Motors with Pantocratoria as a whole.”

“I feel that my requests are most reasonable.” - Alexander said - “I do not require some far-reaching alteration in your society, and I feel your government will find it worth the money that it will save. The billions of dollars.”

“I will present Your Imperial Majesty’s demands to the Government.” Marie answered. “May I ask Your Majesty a frank question?”

“Yes, please.” - Alexander asked. There was a hissing sound, and, from the ceiling, a large white screen began to descend.

“What can I do to end, or at least to reduce, the enmity which I humbly suggest Your Imperial Majesty bears for my country, or at least my House?” Marie dared to ask.

“My dear, I think your people are barbarian savages. I do not believe you can be reformed. Individual Pantocratorians may be nice, but the truth is, your culture is inherently conducive to Feurvels, to virginity checks on noble girls, to slut-shaming, and so on. Not even in Reichskamphen, which is very traditional, are girls physically inspected in this way. So I am going to imagine then ten years from now, my people will be still trying to pull Pantocratoria into whatever century it had not yet arrived in. You are a noblewoman, you know that which I speak of.”

“Why should any of this concern Your Majesty?” Marie asked.

“Because it is an injustice.” - he replied simply.

“It’s a cultural difference…” Marie offered.

“Are you a believer in cultural relativism, then? You are not. You believe that there is one God, and one truth. That Jesus Christ died for our sins. Even if you personally are an atheist - is this not the main point of Pantocratorian culture?”

“It’s our religion, Your Majesty, it’s different from our culture. Distinct, I should say.” Marie replied.

“But then you understand. This is my religion, and I will have no other: All sapientkind is entitled to certain natural rights, inherent in them as sapient beings, and primary among them is the right to do whatever they please, if they do not impinge on the rights of others. This we Allaneans call liberty. I, and my wife, and millions of other Freemen, will fight for this liberty on every shore, until one day - a million years hence, Marie, or a billion years - we will liberate the world entire.”

“Your Imperial Majesty surely knows that what you call liberty is called by other names by many.” Marie suggested. Her voice was sweet, but she felt it a daring thing to say nevertheless.

“You have not asked me to persuade you of my views, I know that is impossible. I merely explain. My dear, noblewomen in your society are held if not in literal slavery, then in oppression. Hell, all women are. And you know this as well as I do.”

“If Your Majesty would have it.” Marie said in a tone which indicated she disagreed.

“Marie. If you were to marry a man, their mother could demand that you be felt up. If you were not a virgin they could shame you. Women are pressured into joining convents. You are suggesting that this is freedom?”

Marie looked to Cassiopeia in the hope that she might look a little sympathetic.

“My dear. If my co-mother-in-law wanted to feel my daughter up as a condition of marriage. I’d fucking shank her ass.” - Cassiopeia said with pure disgust.

“It’s not… like that.” Marie offered feebly, shaken more by the language Cassiopeia had just used than by anything else. She’d heard the word “shank” in a movie about prisons. It didn’t sound ladylike, and the words it had connected certainly weren’t ladylike. “And I could refuse.”

“And be dishonored of course. Let’s remember your country practices arranged marriages. You have a system of sexual education that actually is designed to teach as little as possible. Literally, it’s in its mission statement. Very well. Let me make an object lesson.” - Alexander said - “Commence. Video.”

The screen shifted to an image of Marie’s hotel room, focused on her bed. Clearly it had been shot from the video game console she had seen there. As the video commenced, Marie - it had doubtlessly been her, although of course the real Marie would know it was not real - could be seen sitting down on the edge of the bed in her immense dress.

“Very well, darling.” - a man, who could not be yet seen on camera, spoke - “Let the show commence.”

The very-lifelike-fake-Marie began to undress lasciviously, her body twisting around as she struggled to undo the uncomfortable bonds on her back.

“What… what is this?” Marie asked in horror.

The fake Marie wriggled out of her dress finally. The man laughed. “Excellent, Your Highness! Excellent, now for the phone! I love the phone!”

The woman grabbed her cellphone, which began to buzz unceasingly.

“I imagine this video is highly educational, Marie.” - Alexander said - “Already I can see a useful life skill it is imparting on you.”

“My lady…” Marie looked to Cassiopeia briefly, and back at horror to the video. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Well, I think the life skill is very important. Have you done something like this before?” - Cassiopeia struggled not to laugh, as the sounds from the video rivaled a professional production. Then again, it was one.

“No! Of course not!” Marie nearly shrieked at the screen. “That’s me… but that isn’t me, how… Where did you get this?”

“Now, Marie. What would happen to a noblewoman if a video like this of her existed?” - Alexander asked - “Say, if it were released to the public?”

“You can’t!” Marie wailed at the Emperor, forgetting her manners quite completely. There were tears in her eyes and she was on the verge of hyperventilation. “I’m… I’m going to be sick…”

Princess Marie looked about the throne room of Greater Prussia for the nearest bathroom.

“Pause the video.” - Cassiopeia said, rushing behind Marie. - “Careful. I’ll cut the ribbons.” - the curved knife moved, slicing the ribbons that held the corset in place, allowing Princess Marie to breathe deeply.

She took some deep gasps of air, still in tears, and still profoundly nauseous. As she settled down, she realised that if she moved, she would fall out of her dress, and therefore sat still.

“Why?” Marie asked simply through the tears, to either of them.

“One: I want the treaty to actually be signed. Two: I want you to learn.” - Alexander replied.

“What am I supposed to learn from this?” Marie asked, in a combination of horror and wounded dignity.

“Think of the many women who do things like that. Do they deserve to have their lives utterly destroyed?”

“We don’t do things like that!” Marie answered, apparently answering on behalf of her gender in her whole social class.

“My sincere condolences.” - Cassiopeia replied, calmly.

“How did you get a woman who looked just like me?” Marie asked. “And that’s my room at the Hotel Imperial!”

“I hope you are not surprised that a government with international reach, lead by a man whose personal wealth is in the trillions, can produce such a video. Although I suggest you should perhaps use a purpose-built device next time and not a phone.” - Alexander said.

“Next time?” Marie protested. “It wasn’t me this time! What am I supposed to learn from this? That I could… do that… with a cell phone?”

“If that was news to you, then I am happy that you have learned these news.” - Alexander said - “Should I loan you some manuals? But more to the point, think of that fear that you are experiencing now. This is exactly what hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of other women in your country are made to feel by your social arrangements.”

“I’m feeling this fear because that isn’t really me in that video.” Marie said, shifting awkwardly in her now open-backed red dress.

“And not because there are people who would destroy your entire life if they imagined you did things like that with smartphones?”

“But I don’t do things like that with phones!” Marie insisted. “And if you hadn’t made that video, they wouldn’t think I did!”

“See. And what of the people who do really do these things, do they deserve the sort of fate you expect for yourself now?”

“You won’t really release this will you?” Marie asked, her eyes going wide in fear.

“I hope I will not need to. But I digress. Answer me, Marie, do you think that if someone had done this thing with the phone, should they be scandalized and have their life destroyed? Do you think Charlotte Marmoutier deserved to go to prison? Do you think Eugenie Aprene deserved to be put in some bullshit Reaching God through Guilt thing, to get lynched?” - Alexander asked - “Contemplate the answers carefully, and then answer them truthfully.”

“Ahm..” Marie pondered.

“We have all day.” - Alexander smiled, returning to his throne.

“The judge thought that Charlotte Marmoutier deserved to go to prison…” Marie mumbled weakly, still not sure about her actual answer. Her mother was actually one of the two women at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator who finally decided whether a noblewoman was scandalized or not. It was hard to think of her mother destroying people’s lives.

“The judge isn’t here, Marie.” - Cassiopeia replied - “Also, you can move. I won’t care if your dress is ruined, I cut it myself or you would have passed out. It is no dishonor to be undressed for a medical purpose, is it?”

“I can’t be…” Marie began, looking at Kazansky. “I don’t want to be naked. Not for real. Not in front of… Your Imperial Majesties.” she demurred. “I guess no, I don’t think the consequences should be so heavy, for any of these things. Your Majesties.”

“Then you begin to see why we struggle against these things.” - Cassiopeia smiled kindly.

“I don’t, my lady.” Marie shook her head. “At least, not the way you do it. This was cruel.”

“What would I do if you made such a video of me?” - Cassiopeia replied.

“I would never!” Marie answered. “Never, Lady Blaken-Kazansky.”

“If someone made this video of me, I would laugh.”

“But it’s so realistic!” Marie said. There had been doctored photos of her in gossip magazines and the like for years, but never, as far as she was aware anyway, a porno.

“How can it harm me? Nobody whose opinion matters will think less of me. I am a scientist, a philanthropist, a war hero, a mother, a Queen and Empress. That woman in the video has done nothing wrong, my respect of her is not diminished. The reason you are afraid is because people have the power to shame and end you over this. It is the existence of this power that is unjust. It is a very simple test, Marie. If you agree with me that it is an injustice, you should join me in defeating it. If you do not, then I am forced to rather struggle against you than abandon that woman in the video - who does exist. It’s just that she has a different face, or age, and maybe lives in some other noble house.”

“That woman in the video is a paid actress, surely.” Marie replied.

“Are you absolutely incapable of grasping metaphor?” - Alexander asked.

“Do you expect me to embrace you on your crusade after you make a pornographic film ostensibly depicting me, and to do with open arms, Your Majesty?” Marie asked. “These are the methods you use in your fight against this injustice? I object.”

“Have you not read the New Testament?” - Alexander asked.

“Can we skip the Scripture lesson?” Marie asked. “What would Your Majesty have of me?”

“There are two choices. Either you join me, willingly, and we - you and I, become friends and allies. Or you carry out two tasks for me. One personally, and one as ambassador. What would you prefer?”

“I would have preferred to be friends.” Marie answered, miserably.

“Join us, then, in our plot to help Pantocratorian men and women be freer. I already have a range of allies within the Court, and indeed within Parliament.” - Alexander said with a smile - “Everyone wins.”

“You are, of course, aware that my mother is one of the two women who decides who is scandalized and who may be presented at Court, are you not, Your Majesty?” Marie asked.

“It is part of why I was such a dick.” - he replied.

“Then I doubt Your Majesty has any allies who could be better placed than me.” Marie answered, smiling despite the tears which streaked her cheeks.

“Very well.” - Alexander smiled - “Then what we must first of all do is get the treaty in place. Second, do you think you could get in contact with Eugenie Aprene, or get me in contact with her? After all this story did start with her. We should do something for the poor girl.”

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Marie suggested. “It would be easier to just get the Government to do these things on your list than to write a treaty. After all, you have just declared Pantocratoria a slaver state. As for getting in touch with this girl, Eugenie Aprene, I am sure that can be easily arranged.”

“Yes, the how these things are accomplished is incidental.” - Alexander nodded - “I think we are done then, Marie. Should I get servants to draw a warm bath for you, so you can rest after struggling with the Butcher of Yurka?”

“If Your Majesty would be so kind as to arrange for new laces and ribbons, I am sure that would be more than sufficient.” Marie answered.

“Oh come, my dear.” - Cassiopeia said - “I shall at least get some hot chocolate for you.” - with the struggle ended, the woman was now the image of warmth and charity.

“Some water, perhaps, my lady?” Marie responded. She wrapped her arms tightly around her torso to help hold her dress up as she rose.

Cassiopeia held her arm around the young woman in a motherly hug (that was also helping hold the dress up a bit), and led her out of the hall. “Let’s go to some side room where it’s just you and me, okay dear?”

“Thank you, Lady Blaken…” Marie smiled weakly. She would ordinarily never have left an Emperor’s presence without his explicit leave, but this was hardly an ordinary Emperor let alone an ordinary audience, and she was being led out by the Empress besides.

The woman led her to a tiny (by palace standards) side-kitchen, normally meant for junior nobles, palace staff and servants to prepare meals during long nights of hard work, and sat her down behind the kitchen table. - “Okay.” - she started - “You’ll have to forgive me, I’ll just microwave two cups of hot chocolate, all right?”

“Oh, water will be fine for me, my lady.” Marie said. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“...my dear, I am Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, this is no trouble at all. Do you have some problem with chocolate? I might make tea.”

“Tea would be lovely.” Marie smiled. She knew if she drank the chocolate she’d feel awful about it later.

“Very well. Stossel Tea Gold, not Royal. This kitchen doesn’t have Te Royal, the more’s the pity.” - she paused - “Marie. Do you have a diet issue? Some eating disorder, maybe?”

Marie was momentarily speechless. It was just an extra indignity upon the many she had suffered since she disembarked her plane at Reichsburg International Airport.

“Was it my back?” Marie asked. “I mean, when you saw me, after cutting the laces?”

“I have read that this problem is common among Pantocratorian nobles. I have also read rumors about you specifically. Then I made an educated guess.” - Cassiopeia replied. - “And then you confirmed it.”

“It started when I went to Tarana…” Marie admitted. “I mean, you’re under that same spotlight, people are always watching you too I suppose, and talking about your appearance. It’s not easy. But when I became ambassador, and there were all these protests, and my family was an ocean away… If I had a hot chocolate I’d just make myself throw it up later.”

“Let’s drink tea, first of all, calm down, and talk about this in a few moments, okay?” - Cassiopeia said calmly.

“Thank you.” Marie nodded. “If it please, no milk or sugar.”

“No sugar? Mmmm, okay, but you realize a sugar shortage could kill you one day, right?”

“Actually, I genuinely don’t like sugar in tea.” Marie smiled, still weakly. “Even before I started making myself throw-up.”

“Let’s just drink... I don’t imagine I can persuade you to take cookies with it?” - Cassiopeia pouted slightly.

“No, thank you, my lady.” Marie shook her head.

“Oh well.” - Cassiopeia made her own tea with three cups of sugar, and just rested in her chair, with the enormous mug in hand. - “To be fair, Marie, I was quite nervous there. The difficulty with being an adventurer-queen is that the shenanigans never fucking stop, you know?”

“Why were you nervous?” Marie asked.

“I prefer, frankly, having you on our side. If we’d have to base our operations on pure fear. That’s as useful. And I understand you are at least in part a victim of this stuff and not a perpetrator.”

“You’re very kind.” Marie answered, sipping her tea. The words still sounded more hurt than sincere.

“When the Prison School amnesty is announced, and this stage of our adventure is over, I should invite you to spend a summer with us at Leyfield. Would this not be nice?” - Cassie offered.

“I’m usually in Caldas over summer.” Marie answered. “But I would like to visit Leyfield.”

“That is well. You might get to see my daughter play with the carriage. Have you seen - no, I imagine you have not seen the tabloid photos of her. She is the most adorable child in the world.” - Cassiopeia passed Marie her smartphone, already set to a picture of her daughter smiling and blushing somewhat, taken from an angle that made it easy to notice the black, somewhat fluffy wings.

"She's lovely. God bless." Marie smiled. She had seen pictures before, although she tried to steer away from tabloids. "I hope she likes the gift."

“You should see her in the air.” - Cassiopeia nodded - “She really flies with those, you know? And flitters. And soars.”

"It must be nice to have wings." Marie reflected. She knew her Aunt Irene would probably have screamed at her for saying so, but then, Marie really loathed that awful old woman anyway.

“Well, it’s certainly adorable.” - Cassiopeia noted - “On the other hand, there are downsides, you know.” - she winked.

"What could be the downsides of being able to fly?" Marie asked. "You could stay on the ground if you didn't want to fly. I guess you'd need slightly different dresses but still..." She pictured having wings being crushed by a corset. It was disturbing.

“Well, her wings need to be cared for. They’re feathers, just like on a bird. And she’s starting to molt, soon.” - Cassie giggled. - “She’ll be leaving feathers everywhere, I imagine.”

"I hadn't thought of that." Marie nearly chuckled. She drank some more tea, the hot liquid warming her throat and opening her nasal passageways, and generally making her feel better.

“Every morning,” - Cassiopeia spoke wistfully, - “her governesses need to brush her wings. She loves having them brushed. She almost purrs with joy.”

"Molting isn't a terrible downside to having wings, especially if you like having them brushed." Marie decided. "I wonder though, do they make her feel claustrophobic? You know, when she's inside, under a roof, I wonder, if I were able to fly, I might feel... boxed in, I guess."

“Yes, she is, but not as much as you imagine. She just requires bigger rooms. She dislikes traveling by cars too. She was forced to travel by one of these tiny sports coupes once and... she was rather unhappy.” - Cassiopeia winced - “Happily she has everything she might ever need at Leyfield. If not for her health issues, she’d have a flight range of thirty miles, too, like a real crow. Forgive me, Marie, I can talk about my marvel for hours on end.”

"No, don't apologize, it's nice to hear. You love her very much." Marie smiled. "My sister is the same with her little boy. Only he has no wings of course."

“Do not entice me, Marie. I have video of her in flight I can show.”

"Please do." Marie replied.

“Here.” - Cassiopeia adjusted the phone somewhat. Now there was a video of the child flying, swift and graceful, a magic sparkling trail behind her, and then flittering just above her mother. Finally, the Princess set down, and could be seen eating vanilla ice-cream from a glass bowl and offering her mother to taste some - even though Cassiopeia could be seen in the video eating identical ice-cream from her own bowl.

“Is she not marvelous?” - Cassie asked.

"She is." Marie nodded, ignoring the somewhat strange ice-cream behaviour in favour of the bigger picture.

“She is light of my life. And she is- I am sorry, I could speak of her for hours and never tire. I sometimes watch her sports lessons at Leyfield. Of course she must fly regularly, being a bird. And so there’s a special tutor and I watch her do that. If you come to Leyfield, Marie, she will probably run to you and try to hug you with these wings, she does this to anyone whom she considers her friend. She comes and - foop!- “ -she made a sound, like a pair of wings flapping together - “wraps you in them.”

"That sounds like quite an experience." Marie replied. "I'll have to come. She doesn't come to Reichsburg?"

“No, not really.” - Cassiopeia replied. - “Now, Marie. Can I inquire about something very personal?”

"Yes, I suppose." Marie said, suddenly getting a little nervous again. She had some more tea.

“Now, you have an eating disorder as we established... is the reason you have not gotten help that you’re trying to keep it secret?”

"I have gotten help." Marie confided. "But it goes backwards and forwards. I mean, I go backwards and forwards. I have tablets from my doctor with me back at the hotel, and I took them at the same time as some diet pills. I probably need to talk to him again..."

“Now, do you think I could arrange some help for you when you are here next? We can say you’re a guest of the Imperial Family, and meanwhile you rest, and bathe in Leyfield’s hot springs, and talk to our family therapist?”

"Really, I have my own therapist. I do." Marie said. "It's just like... being an alcoholic or something, you know? I've relapsed..."

“That’s not true even about alcoholics, you know.” - Cassie said - “But I think the issue might be that you’re constantly under pressure. A summer vacation somewhere under the guise of ‘oh I am dealing with affairs of State at the Kazansky palace’ might do you some good. Mmm?”

"It might do." Marie conceded.

Cassiopeia nodded - “Excellent, then. And, Marie? If you ever feel that the... invisible chains are bearing too heavy. You know you can always talk to me, right?”

She slid a black, diamond-studded visiting card across the table. Marie reached and put her hand on the card. The Princess wasn’t used to being pitied, and wasn’t sure she liked it, although she supposed between the humiliation and terror of the Presidential porno and admitting her eating disorder, pity was natural enough a reaction to her that day. Let the Empress of Greater Prussia pity her, then.

“Thank you.” Marie responded. “There is… perhaps… something, if I might ask you, my lady? I was robbed yesterday, just a few minutes away from the Hotel Imperial. My father gave me pearls for my 28th birthday - a pearl choker, pearl bracelet, pearl earrings, and… a whole dress of pearls actually. I wore it in case the press or somebody from the Government met me at the airport… anyway. Three urchin boys stole all of them. We filed a police report, but if there was anything… I shouldn’t ask.”

“Urchin boys? In Reichsburg? Unheard of.” - Cassiopeia replied.

"I don't think they were really urchins. One was far too pretty..." Marie blanched. "...uhh... he had golden hair and didn't look like an urchin. Anyway, I was having my man give some money to them and then another boy came with a gun and they robbed me..."

“I am sorry, my dear. Possibly we should not have made public Pantocratoria’s new status. He likely thought he was demanding tribute from a slaver. Your people should hurry with the reforms... golden hair, you say? That’s pretty common among upper-class Reichskamphenites.”

"He might have been golden haired and, well, pretty," Marie said, figuring she may as well repeat the description. "But he couldn't have been well-bred."

“This sounds to me like something my husband would plan to teach you a lesson.” - Cassiopeia replied.

"Like that awful film?" Marie gasped. The thought hadn't occurred to her that the robbery could have been arranged by Kazansky. "He wouldn't have, surely?"

“To Marie the adorable girl who wants to help us? Never. To Princess Marie, state envoy of Pantocratoria the slaver state? If he thought it would help.”

"Why are you so kind to me while he is so cruel, then, if I may be so bold?" Marie inquired.

“Because the hour of cruelty is over, Marie.” - Cassiopeia said - “And this is not great cruelty. Do you think I mock you when I say I do not consider that film horrible or disgusting?”

"No, but the film was made to mock me, and threaten me." Marie responded.

“Yes. But also to make a point. My dear, I do not apologize. Merely I give you my word that now that you are an ally we shall not repeat this behavior. And you were kind to me, and kind to my marvel, and very few people are kind to my marvel, and so it is easier for me to be kind to you than it is for my husband.”

"May I ask..." Marie began. "And this is dreadfully inappropriate, but may I ask, since we're speaking so frankly... what it's like being married to such a man?"

“Have you ever read an adventure novel? Captain Nemo, perhaps, or Captain Breakneck, or The Count of Monte-Kristo?”

"Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, yes." Marie nodded. She had of course read it in its original French.

“Imagine being married to the Count while he went about his adventures. Including the ones that are implied in the novel and not described outright.”

"Well..." Marie began thoughtfully. "That does sound romantic. But is it really like this?"

“Consider I married my husband on a speeding elf ship, and Lady Sirithil officiated our wedding. Our first act as married couple was to finalized the adoption of my lovely daughter. Then, fast as lightning, we sped to our lovely palace in the North. During our honeymoon, we destroyed a network of slave-traders and orphanleggers - I hardly imagine the word ‘orphanlegger’ exists in Pantocratoria, does it?”

"I haven't heard it." Marie confirmed. "I can work out what it means though."

“They used to fake papers and adopt orphans out of orphanages on pretense of being potential parents. Then the orphans would be resold.” - Cassiopeia replied. - “At any rate I have destroyed the organization utterly. There was also a small adventure where I met the entities Spireans call ‘gods’, and exchanged acts of mutual rudeness with them. I think... you understand my tales now?”

“I do, a little better perhaps.” Marie nodded.

“In effect, me and my husband are adventurers. They call him a Pirate King in Crystal Spires, Adolescent Emperor in Greater Prussia’s army, Boy-President in Allanea. If you have ever played Aliens and Rocketships, or a game like it, you might be familiar with the stereotype at least?”

“I haven’t played it.” Marie answered. “Is it a video game?”

“Dungeons and Dragons? Tunnels and Trolls? Swords and Sorcerers? Anything like this?”

“OK, like a board game.” Marie nodded. She had heard a product name before.

“You have never played it or known of it? My gods Marie. I shall give you the player’s handbook before you leave.”

“Uhh…” Marie began. “Thank you? I play chess sometimes.”

“Mmm. I’m trying to think of a Pantocratorian cultural product that would feature an adventurer, then.”

“We have comic books about the Knights of the Order of the Pantocrator, about heroes who fought the Turks… about the lives of saints?” Marie offered. Comic books were a similar product to these games right?

“You’re fucking with me.” - Cassiopeia replied - “I... fuckit, let’s go watch Iron Man together.”

“Do you think we could… get some laces for my corset and ribbons for my dress first?” Marie asked. Iron Man sounded like a movie about a knight, so that seemed fine, but she was worried about falling out of her dress with the back opened if she moved around too much more.

“Well, not this very moment... should I get some traditional Spirean robes made for you? Or Menelmacari dresses? You don’t need to be fucking about in a corset here, you are my guest. I hate corsets.”

“You know I wouldn’t be… fucking about...” Marie joked with a cheeky grin. “If there is something else I could change into, I’d appreciate it, thank you, my lady.”

“Now you begin to get it. Now let’s get you some kind of... bathrobe until the dress is fit, and-”

At this point, a young girl entered the room. She was aged about eighteen, tall, slender, and dressed in a tight, steely-grey dress, with a single colorful pin on her lapel. She had sapphire-blue eyes and golden-blond hair done up in a bun. Perhaps Marie would have found her familiar somehow.

“The weekly reports, Your Imperial Majesty.” - she said, handing Cassiopeia a small binder.

“Thank you, Christine.” - the Empress nodded.

Marie watched the girl enter the room and hand the binder to Cassiopeia, and tried to place where she had seen her before. She shifted in her chair to correct the slow “unfolding” of her dress from her shoulders as she had leaned forward and back to sip her tea.

“Tell them that they do not need my micromanagement to run it.” - Cassiopeia signed something within the binder and handed it back. - “Is there a problem, Marie?”

“No, nothing, my lady.” Marie shook her head. “I… just thought I might have recognized the young lady.”

“Mmm. This is Christine von Steinfurt, Baronetess. Her twin sister accompanies me sometimes. So does their brother, an adorable boy by any measure. He is the light of my life and my great hope.”

“You are very pretty, Dame Christine.” Marie smiled warmly. Surely not!

“Thank you, Your Highness.” - Christine curtsied, and left the room.

“They are lovely girls. They have accompanied me through my recent adventures, and have, more importantly, taken care of my daughter.” - Cassiopeia explained.

“How blessed you are to have them.” Marie replied. “Their brother, is he older? He must be very handsome.”

“He’s younger. Fifteen years old. Would you like me to show you a photograph? My daughter is extremely fond of him.”

“Oh, too young for me, quel dommage…” Marie demurred with smile. “But your daughter is fond of him? Pardon me, but do you mean romantically?”

“What, have you missed the Imperial Boyfriend commemorative plates and stickers that are sold at airport shops by now? Yes, my daughter is fond of him in that way, they are extremely happy together.”

“I was rather distracted at the airport by security.” Marie remembered. “May I see a photograph of the Imperial Boyfriend, my lady?”

“Here, please.” - Cassiopeia adjusted the phone, showing Marie a photo of Rudy and Rheya seated together on a pair of beach chairs on the Leyfield balcony, talking to each other about something. Their expressions betrayed, of course, a genuine and mutual affection.

“Oh, so sweet!” Marie sighed. Hello, urchin! She handed Cassiopeia back the phone. “A very pretty couple. So, shall we watch Sir Iron Man?”

“We shall.”

Thus Cassiopeia led her guest into yet another sideroom, where a sofa and a fairly large television had been made ready.

“Should I have them fetch a tub of ice-cream? Diet ice-cream?”

“No thank you, not for me.” Marie smiled self-consciously.

“So what do you do when you feel the need to watch movies and cry? No ice-cream... no cellphones...”

The film began. Marie, now snuggled into a bathrobe instead of her continually falling open court dress, was shocked to discover the film did not feature a knight at all, nor did it seem like the sort of film to eat ice-cream and cry to, what with all the explosions.

“Now, all you need to do is imagine Stark had a wife just like himself and all will fall into place.” - Cassie giggled.

[Xirnium]

TAUNT Magazine
Scientists: Sexting Is Totes OK
10 Asterôthe Bright Era MMMDCCXCV by Agnètha Xanthymphê

Love to send your man naughty pics? You’re not alone!

According to a new study from the University of Nyphëlhëlm, sexting is a vital and healthy part of modern dating.

For the study, scientists looked at the sexting habits of around 5000 men and women aged 18–24 and discovered that sexting is pretty common.

Plus, unlike what some experts used to think, they found that sexting isn’t linked to depression, anxiety or low self-esteem (ahem, we could have told them that!).

Of the group surveyed, scientists found that more than half of them sext, and that most people who send flirty texts receive them as well — a sign that it’s mostly going on between guys and gals who are in committed relationships (instead of just having a fling).

Of course, it’s def best to stick to sending your NSFW pictures to a guy that you’re in a steady relationship with (who you know won’t be a douche and pass them on to his friends). Still stressing that someone else will see them? Our advice: Send a close-up of a sexy part of your bod (that can’t be easily IDed as you, obvi!), like the corner of your LBD-clad hip, or a shot of your cleavage peeking out of a lacy bra. It’s hotter to leave a little to the imagination anyway!

***

Taunt is a monthly magazine for women, with more than a dozen international editions and an Eternal Republic circulation of 169 million readers (the highest circulation of any women’s glossy magazine in that country). The advertisement-heavy magazine features short fiction pieces and advice-oriented articles on relationships, sex, fashion, entertainment and careers, and reliably more artsy and experimental covers.

While Taunt tends to focus exclusively on the interests of young ‘well-turned-out’ women, it has occasionally been accused of subtly targeting teenaged girls. Feminists and social conservatives alike point to the use of extra-large fonts and a minimum of words on a page, extremely bright colours and slang which is commonly used by teenagers.

[Tarasovka]

TARASKOVYAN EMPIRE
FOREIGN AFFAIRS MINISTRY

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

His High Excellency the Foreign Affairs Minister of the Taraskovyan Empire, His Grace the Duke Alexei of Var-Vilena and Southern Aphyr

to His Excellency the Maverick Monningham, Secretary of State of the United States of Allanea

Your Excellency,

I am approaching you through the present missive to express Taraskovya's utter rejection and condemnation of the declaration by the United States of Allanea of a state of latent warfare against the Pantocratorian Empire through the qualification of latter as a "slaver" state, with all the consequences associated thereto through Allanean legislation. Such moves and actions by the United States of Allanea are arbitrary, exaggerated and overtly aggressive, done and carried out in violation of the principle of good faith, carried out on a whim without any basis in sense or justification.

Through her alliance to the Pantocratorian Empire and the bonds of friendship tying the two Empires, the mutual obligation to aid and assist binds Taraskovya in all matters when her interests and those of her allies are endangered or threatened. Whilst the Taraskovyan Empire at present is not considering going the length of her Excalbian allies in declaring a state of latent hositilities and treating Allanea as an enemy, or a “rogue state”, we may not leave the matter without a strong and firm reaction.

It is, thus, the formal demand of the Taraskovyan Empire, communicated as yet in private to Your Excellency, that the United States of Allanea within ten days from the present missive, Vigvar time, retract her qualification of Pantocratoria as a "slaver state" and suspend all and any hostile acts and moves against the Pantocratorian Empire. The United States of Allanea must restore civilized relations with the Pantocratorian Empire post haste and return the discussion of all points of contention to the negotiation table.

We furthermore demand that the United States of Allanea compensates the Pantocratorian Empire and her citizens of all negative consequences and damages which arose as per the actions as above as per a timetable agreed upon with the Pantocratorian Empire.

Should the United States of Allanea fail to comply with the above demands, the Taraskovyan Empire shall respond proportionately and in kind to any Allanean moves against the Pantocratorian Empire through means commercial, legal, diplomatic, cultural, economic, financial, military and other, in coordination with the Pantocratorian Empire and other Taraskovyan allies and friends.

Upon the expiration of the tenth day imparted by the present missive, the Taraskovyan Empire shall reveal such measures as, without limitation: suspension of diplomatic relations, suspension of trade relations, outlawing of all interactions with the United States of Allanea and Allanean citizens as conspiring with an enemy state, suspension of travel. A full list of measures shall be revealed by the Council of Ministers upon the expiration of the tenth day imparted upon by the present missive, Vigvar time being referenced. Additional and further means shall be defined and ordered by the Veche of the Taraskovyan Empire as per the usual procedure when dealing with enemy and hostile states.

In order to avoid an escalation of the situation and to give the United States of Allanea the time it needs to resolve its outstanding issues with the Pantocratorian Empire in a peaceful and civilized way, the Taraskovyan Empire shall only withdraw her diplomatic and consular staff from the United States of Allanea upon the expiration of the tenth day imparted by the present missive. Neither shall the Empire issue guidance to private citizens to withdraw from the United States of Allanea within the ten days. The status quo shall be maintained for the duration of the ten days. The present shall only be done on the condition that the United States of Allanea does not move to withdraw its own diplomatic and consular personnel before the deadline, for any move to such shall be considered a hostile and destructive act and shall be replied to in kind.

The diplomatic and consular staff of the United States of Allanea, her citizens private and public, her interests and properties, private and public, within all territories under the authority or protection of the Taraskovyan Empire shall enjoy the full protection of His Most August Majesty and of the Taraskovyan Empire for the remainder of the ten days and shall continue to operate unrestricted and without change as compared to before the issuance of the present missive. Should Your Government move to evacuate, repatriate, withdraw or in any way what so ever to upset the status quo in the coming days, the Taraskovyan Empire shall see this as a hostile and destructive act and shall reply to such in kind.

May the Holy Theotokos watch over Taraskovya and Allanea,

Alexei of Var-Vilena and Southern Aphyr
Foreign Affairs Minister

[Pantocratoria]

The Winter Palace
Reichsburg
Reichskamphen

Princess Marie emerged from the Winter Palace wearing not the Pantocratorian court gown she had worn into her meeting with the Emperor and Empress of Greater Prussia, but a long, flowing pale yellow gown of Menelmacari cut. Françoise de Persandry and Stig Erikssen greeted their charge in some confusion, but Marie just seemed to want to get straight into the car.

"Your Highness, what happened to your dress?" Françoise asked.

There was no reply, but Marie gave her lady-in-waiting a dark, nearly angry look. Françoise could see that her mistress had been crying not because her eyes were still red (after all, she had watched Iron Man with the Empress since the horror), but because her eye-liner had been mostly wiped away, presumably after it had begun to run from tears. It was perhaps a strange detail to notice, but Françoise had of course helped Marie apply the eye-liner that morning. Erikssen picked up the vibe too.

"Mademoiselle, I trust everything went well?" he asked her quietly as she strode purposefully towards the car.

"The door." Marie answered tersely, indicating to the car door with a nod of her head. Erikssen obediently opened it for her, and he and Françoise followed her in.

Once they were inside and on their way back to the hotel, Françoise pressed again for some information.

"You were gone for hours, mademoiselle. You've even changed dresses. What happened?" Françoise asked.

"I had to change." Marie answered simply. Her eyes settled on the car radio. Where's the hidden microphone?

"Why?" Françoise pressed.

Marie glared back at the young woman. But after a few seconds, her expression softened and she sighed.

"I needed air, and the Empress cut the laces of my corset and bodice." Marie finally said.

"What?" Erikssen demanded. He pictured Cassiopeia coming at Marie with a pair of scissors. "Why would she do that?"

"Because I was going to vomit if she didn't." Marie admitted in a low voice.

"Are you ill, mademoiselle?" Françoise gasped.

"No." Marie answered. There was a pause. "I hyperventilated."

"Oh." Françoise replied.

"Did something happen?" Erikssen asked in concern.

"Stig, I..." Marie began. She blanched at the thought of telling the handsome, chiselled Nordic leviathan who more than occasionally visited her dreams about the video the perfidious Emperor of Greater Prussia had somehow manufactured about her. "I really can't talk about it right now, I'm sorry."

"Your mission was unsuccessful then, mademoiselle?" Erikssen concluded.

"Ever the military man." Marie sighed with a faint smile. "Don't worry about my diplomatic mission. I think it went as well as everyone expected it to go." Although I doubt they anticipated all of the details back home.

Back at the hotel, the maid greeted Princess Marie and Françoise with some confusion over Marie's dress. Erikssen followed the ladies in.

"My PeacockPad." Marie said more in the direction of the maid than to the maid.

"Yes, mademoiselle." the maid said obediently, and retrieved the tablet computer and handed it to Françoise, who handed it to the Princess.

"What will you take for luncheon, mademoiselle?" Françoise asked. Luncheon would be a little bit late thanks to Iron Man, but still within a broadly acceptable timeframe for their jetlagged metabolisms.

"Just water, please." Marie told Françoise without looking at her, as she started to draft her summary of the meeting with the Emperor and Empress of Greater Prussia on the PeacockPad.

Françoise and Erikssen exchanged looks. Françoise whispered something to the maid, who looked sullen and shook her head in reply. The lady-in-waiting glanced at the bodyguard again and then addressed their mutual mistress.

"Mademoiselle, you've not eaten since we got here." Françoise said quietly.

"I wish everybody would stop trying to feed me!" Marie snapped, distracted for a moment from her PeacockPad.

"Mademoiselle de Persandry is just worried for you, mademoiselle." Erikssen suggested gently.

"I work better hungry." Marie insisted, and returned to her PeacockPad, her fingers furiously moving over the glass surface.

"Impossible, mademoiselle." Erikssen replied, folding his arms. "Soldiers can't fight on empty stomachs. I don't see why diplomats should... erm... ahh..."

"Oh Stig, you're so handsome when you're tongue-tied." Marie teased him, barely glancing up from her PeacockPad. "Here, stop searching for a verb, and take this from me, hmm?" The Princess finished encrypting her memorandum and hit the send button, and then handed him the PeacockPad. "I'm going to change, just wait outside for moment, will you?"

Erikssen took the PeacockPad and stepped outside the room. He gave Françoise a defeated shrug as the door was closed on him. Marie promptly pulled off the wrap from her waist and, with Françoise's assistance, was promptly disrobed from the Menelmacari gown. Now dressed only in mismatching lingerie (since she hadn't needed to wear a brassiere with the corset of her now discarded New Rome court dress, and so the brassiere had been gifted along with the gown by the Empress), Marie sheltered behind the door, which she opened from the inside. Erikssen could only see Françoise holding the dress, and the maid in the background, and was suitably confused when Marie's disembodied voice came from behind the door.

"Take the dress and check it for bugs, please Stig, my dear." Marie said.

Françoise took the hint and handed the dress to Erikssen, although she looked even more horrified than one might expect since she interpeted bugs rather more literally than Marie intended it, at least just for a moment.

"Yes, mademoiselle." Erikssen replied, and the door was closed again.

Marie now strode over to her bed in her mismatching lingerie, her ribs clearly visible through her skin. Her course across the spacious apartment took her in front of the video game console. The maid handed Françoise the ordered glass of water, which Françoise handed to the near naked Princess. Marie folded her right leg over her left as she sat on the side of the bed and sipped her water. Her long legs would have been perfectly shapen if she was not so underweight.

"Your diamonds, mademoiselle..." Françoise began, now that she realised they were not still around the neck of her mistress, beneath the new gown. "Did you leave them behind?"

"The Empress said she liked them..." Marie began, her chin wobbling. "So I offered them to her."

"And she accepted?" Françoise gasped, incredulously.

"Yes." Marie nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "And the worst thing is, I think she's just going to throw them in her vault somewhere, not even wear them."

"What?" Françoise gaped.

"What was I to do?" asked Marie.

"That bitch!" Françoise hissed.

"Don't blame her." Marie shook her head. "I don't think she'd have accepted if she knew the Pantocratorian way of these things. They should never have sent me here, Françoise."

Marie wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her left wrist, and sipped at her water again. Her gaze settled upon the video game console sitting across from her. She pointed at it.

"That thing!" Marie nearly shrieked. "Throw it out the window!"

"What, mademoiselle?" Françoise asked, not understanding.

"The video game thing!" Marie insisted, pointing again. She looked to the maid. "Open the window!"

"The video game thing?" Françoise asked uncomprehendingly as the maid opened the window as instructed.

"Yes, oh... nevermind!" Marie frowned, and handed the half-empty glass to her friend.

The Princess got up off the bed, strode over to the video game console, pulled it loose from its consoles and carried it over to the window. She looked down to make sure she wasn't going to drop it on anybody, and then flung it from the window. She felt strangely liberated and pleased with herself, so much so that for a few seconds she forgot that she was visible from the waist up only in her bra at the largest window in her hotel room. She covered her modest cleavage with one hand and backed away forthwith.

"Draw me a bath." Marie instructed the maid, who hastily closed the windows and closed the blinds once more.

"That was... umm..." Françoise stammered in shock.

"The motion sensor camera." Marie said as if it was self-explanatory. "I don't feel the need to be further exhibited to our hosts."

She sat back down next to Françoise on the bed. The lady-in-waiting was perplexed and unsettled by the console incident, and didn't know what to say.

"Can I have my water back, please?" Marie asked her.

[Pantocratoria]

PANTOCRATORIAN IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT

Office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs
Department of Foreign Affairs
PO Box 10000
New Rome 1455
Pantocratoria


29 November 2013

Hon. Maverick Monningham
Secretary of State
United States of Allanea

In Strictest Confidence

Mr Secretary,

I write with respect to the recent declaration by your Department that Pantocratoria has been reclassified as a "Slaver State". The unfortunate nature of this declaration was compounded by its timing - several days earlier than expected, while Pantocratoria's Special Envoy to the Greater Prussian Empire, Her Imperial Highness Princess Marie, was en route to Reichskamphen to speak to the Emperor of Greater Prussia and President of the United States of Allanea about this very matter.

Despite the premature declaration by your department, Her Highness was graciously received by Their Majesties the Emperor and Empress of Greater Prussia in Reichsburg, and received a list of requested policy changes which the Emperor/President indicated would be sufficient for the declaration of reclassification as a "Slaver State" to be reversed.

By now you have surely received a missive from the Taraskovyan Empire on the topic of your department's reclassification of Pantocratoria as a "Slaver State".

I am pleased to be able to write to you with a compromise offer which will address Allanea's most substantial objection to Pantocratorian legislation whilst preserving the Pantocratorian Government's election manifesto, and which will ensure that neither Pantocratorian nor Allanean citizens nor businesses are impacted by any further diplomatic sanction or political declaration.

The Pantocratorian Government will, at the next sitting of the Imperial Parliament, introduce legislation which will amend the Marital Rape Prohibition Act 2006 in order to remove the requirement of legal separation for charges to be laid, and in so doing, to remove the so called "Heir Exemption" under which a very small number of noblewomen married to title holders or their primary heirs may not have been eligible for protection under that law.

Further, the Attorney-General will order a review of the convictions of all inmates of His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel, by a special advisory committee of defence attorneys, which will advise the Attorney-General on whether re-trials might be appropriate for any of the inmates, including the escapees.

Finally, the Attorney-General will submit a recommendation to His Most Catholic and Imperial Majesty the Emperor that Mademoiselle Madeleine Marie Claire Tourniques be pardoned and granted immunity from prosecution for any crimes she may have committed in the course of her escape from His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel.

I wish to assure you, as well, that this correspondence and all other diplomatic correspondence on this matter will be classified as In Strictest Confidence and as such, will not be publicly released in Pantocratoria for twenty five years. The President's requested changes will be kept in confidence by Pantocratoria just as this missive will be kept in confidence by Pantocratoria. We hope to come to a settlement which will appease the peoples of both of our great nations.

I hope that this very reasonable offer of compromise will be agreeable to you and I look forward to your reply.

Yours Sincerely,

Cyrus Falstonville


Hon. Sir Cyrus Falstonville KPE MP
Member of the Imperial Parliament
Minister for Foreign Affairs
Knight of the Pantocratorian Empire

[Allanea]

To: His High Excellency the Foreign Affairs Minister of the Taraskovyan Empire, His Grace the Duke Alexei of Var-Vilena and Southern Aphyr

Your ambassador is not welcome in the United States of Allanea anymore. Moving vans will be on their way shortly.

To: Cyrus Falstonville

It is downright unbelievable that your government would use cheap trickery of this sort. The United States Embassy in Pantocratoria is being shut down. Staff will remain for several days, but will no longer provide ambassadorial services except where needed to accept refugees. Not only have most of our demands remained utterly unaddressed, but the demand for amnesty had been replaced by some nebulous review, where His Imperial Majesty could issue a pardon.

We are also fascinated by your belief we are somehow ashamed by this agreement, or that we feel that we have done something wrong. We do not. Please understand further that our box of tricks has not yet been exhausted.

As for the Taraskovyan Ambassador, he has already been informed he is no longer welcome in Allanea.

[Tarasovka]

To: His High Excellency the Foreign Affairs Minister of the Taraskovyan Empire, His Grace the Duke Alexei of Var-Vilena and Southern Aphyr

Your ambassador is not welcome in the United States of Allanea anymore. Moving vans will be on their way shortly.

To: Maverick Monningham, Secretary of State of the United States of Allanea

It is my pleasure to inform you that from this moment forward no ties shall bind Taraskovya and Allanea.

[Xirnium]

On the pretty Myrta-Glorifloure W.154, while the passengers ignored the soft, smoothly multilingual rivulet of English, French and Middle Närvärynese coming from the public address system (which was saying all those things about life jackets and the flying time to Vargárlaith), the first of the three powerful, rear-mounted turbo-jets began to hum. Gradually, the airliner was coming alive. The second joined in; and then the third. The hum became a harmony.

‘Oh my Goddess, I can’t believe that actually worked!’ Élisabeth said, still brimming with nervous energy. Taking her seat beside the girl, she excitedly squeezed Félicité’s hand. ‘I was praying so hard that everything would be alright,’ Élisabeth confided. She handed Félicité a warm, damp facecloth and a cleanser which one of the friendly stewardesses had given her from the galley. ‘You did so well, sweetheart. It’s over now. You’re safe.’

‘Thanks be...’ Félicité sighed with a smile and reclined back into her seat. She wiped foundation off her forehead and cheeks before speaking again. ‘I didn’t realise he would do that...’

Élisabeth didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. ‘Ah. I’m going to tell him off about that,’ she said, pursing her mouth. ‘Even if it was necessary… the passport officials did seem to have dramatically stepped up their security procedures since last time... he should have warned you at least. Warned me, too.’

‘It’s OK, it just took me by surprise, that’s all.’ Félicité said. ‘It worked anyway. Tricked them.’

‘Yeah, they barely even raised an eyebrow, did they?’ said Élisabeth, wrinkling her nose. ‘Ugh — men are pigs. I mean, fortunately, this time, but whatever, right? This is why in Xirnium the women are in charge.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Fortunately, you had the wits about you to play along. Imagine what they would have thought if you had slapped him.’

‘He told me to play along. He told me to whisper into his ear and laugh. I can’t claim credit.’ Félicité said. ‘He did really smell of brandy though. So I admit, I wasn’t sure it was all an act at first...’

‘I think he had been drinking with the Pantocratorian foreign minister...’ Élisabeth said. ‘Which no doubt was all part of an act, as well.’ She looked a little dubious. ‘Listen, Rupert’s a good man,’ she added for the record. ‘None of us wanted the passport officials to refuse to let you on to the plane.’

‘No, of course.’ Félicité nodded. ‘I couldn’t go back… Anyway, when do you think they’ll work it out?’

Élisabeth shrugged. ‘I guess that’s not really something that you need to worry about, anymore; but by tomorrow morning, whenever the mail gets distributed at the foreign ministry, the Government will be aware that you entered our embassy last night — can you believe that was only, like 24 hours ago — that you requested asylum, and that “it pleases the Eternal Republic” to grant it to you. I can’t imagine that it will take much longer for them to figure it out, after that.’

‘Do you think they’ll let my parents come to Xirnium after that?’ Félicité asked, a little nervously.

‘I have never heard of the Government denying exit to an imperial citizen who has committed no crime,’ said Élisabeth, frowning. ‘Of course, they might make it more difficult than it needs to be, but they have no reason I can imagine to detain your parents. I am confident they will be allowed to come to Xirnium.’

‘They could trump up reasons.’ Félicité suggested, sounding less confident. ‘But I hope you’re right.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ Élisabeth frowned, ‘your parents will have the support of the Xirniumite Government, if they should need it; and public, open support. I understand that we’re on much firmer legal ground on this issue than we were in granting you diplomatic asylum,’ she said, smiling thinly. ‘Um, but you need to make sure you don’t mention any of the details of your stay at the embassy, or of your flight from Pantocratoria, when you speak with your parents on the phone. That could only make things more difficult for them. But honestly, Félicité, I’m sure they’ll be fine.’

‘Great!’ Félicité sighed with relief. ‘And thank you again. I think I understand the make-up better now.’

‘You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart.’ She squeezed her hand and looked a little touched. ‘I think, ever since it became obvious the Allanean administration probably sponsored the raid on Feurvel, the authorities have been extremely paranoid about what other governments are doing,’ said Élisabeth. ‘Those girls who escaped with them have embarrassed your Government a lot. I don’t know if you’ve been able to follow that story much, since you’ve been on the run...’

‘Not really, I did see a newspaper cover or two, but that is all.’ Félicité admitted. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘Oh, well, um,’ smiled Élisabeth. ‘Well, there was one girl, the most famous one, I guess, Charlotte maybe? Oh, I hope I remembered that rightly. She was the girl who was imprisoned for texting photos of herself to her boyfriend. Or something like that. Did you know her, from Feurvel?’

‘No, but… Is this the Cucumber girl?’ Félicité asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Somebody had printed out a website and copies of it were making the rounds. I didn’t know her personally though.’

‘Well, I imagine that was her...’ frowned Élisabeth. ‘Was there a lot of bullying and harassment at Feurvel? I mean, of course there was, it was a prison school, right?’ Élisabeth half rolled her eyes at herself. ‘Um, and there was also this other girl, Madeleine. Really pretty name.’ Naturally; as it was a name in Xirnium as well. ‘Actually, it’s much easier to remember names when everyone isn’t called Marie, or Thérèse,’ she said, and covered her mouth. ‘No offence to any Maries or Thérèses in your family. Um, Madeleine seemed really sweet. Her father was a colonel, or something, in the Iesus Christi war, and she was convicted for carrying his service revolver or whatever. I can’t remember what the others did. Actually…’ she twisted in her seat, and reached for the steward’s bell, ‘we could probably get a newspaper...’

Élisabeth heard the pretty ding-dong somewhere back in the aircraft’s galley.

‘Marie is my middle name.’ Félicité objected. ‘Anyway, I know Madeleine. Madeleine is the same age as me. Same form, same dorm. Different rooms though. She kind of looked down on most of us, truth be told. It sounded pretty bad, her conviction, the way she told it, but I always assumed she was kind of leaving something out, you know? I bet she did want to shoot that nun. Some of those nuns at those Church schools are really evil.’

‘I was just teasing about “Marie”,’ Élisabeth backtracked. ‘My first name is Rudolphina and Élisabeth is actually my middle name, so I’m not one to talk.’ For her own part, Élisabeth wondered if there wasn’t something Félicité hadn’t told them about her own conviction, but she hadn’t figured out a polite way to enquire; and anyway it didn’t really matter, she supposed. ‘You’ve got a really suspicious mind,’ she observed, smiling.

There was a rustle of skirt behind them. Élisabeth turned and glanced up at the stewardess, trim and fresh in her striking red uniform, with its white gloves, jaunty hat worn at a slight angle to the right, and a torso-length, four-button jacket that emphasised her defined waistline. ‘Welcome aboard, ladies,’ she said, fluently and expertly in English, with a fixed, bright smile. ‘Can I get you something? We’ll be taking off very shortly.’

‘Actually, can we please see today’s paper?’ said Élisabeth, lowering her voice to almost a whisper. She wasn’t sure why she was whispering.

‘Absolutely, madam.’ Élisabeth received an extra two teeth in the enthusiastic smile. It was far from the strangest request the stewardess had ever received. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing for me, thank you...’

‘Anything I can get for you, sweetheart?’ she asked Félicité.

Félicité quietly shook her head.

‘So, like,’ Élisabeth continued, ‘you weren’t very close with Madeleine. Because she was a military daughter? Were you able to make any friends at Feurvel, or was it basically intolerable and lonely the whole time? I’ve heard it’s so much worse now, after the breakout...’ she added with a frown.

‘How could it get worse?’ Félicité replied dubiously. ‘I had some friends I guess. And don’t get me wrong, Madeleine wasn’t bad or anything. She was new this semester, and she seemed to be taking it even harder than I did. It’s just, I think she sort of made it worse for herself because… it was kind of hard to be her friend. There were girls in there for lots of things, you know. I didn’t see any point in avoiding some girls because of what they had done, you know. I mean, I was a drug dealer, right? It didn’t matter I was selling mifepristone. I was going to be a drug dealer for the rest of my life in my file, you know? And she was going to be some psycho who threatened a nun with a gun the rest of her life. It’s not like people will look down on you even more if you are also friends with a thief or a prostitute or an Indian or a vandal or whatever else.’

Félicité wiped more of the make-up from her face, and continued.

‘I had this friend, Maria,’ she shot Élisabeth a little look as if to warn her off mocking the name. ‘She had done a whole bunch of stuff. Vandalism. Assault. I think she stole a car too but that could have just been a story. Roman girl from Demetriopolis. If you met her there she was like anybody else. She’d been there for a whole year when I got there, and she shared my room with me, you know, we were like bunk mates I guess. You would never think she could have hurt anybody, but the way she talked about herself, she must have been a little scary before Feurvel. We used to talk a lot. We used to sing after lights out. You know, like, just quietly in our beds. Tell jokes. Laugh… Cry. You know, when we needed to. I think so long as you shared a room with somebody you could be friends with, it wasn’t intolerable… I would have hated to go to the cells though, even for one night. I think… I don’t know, it would be really bad. I tried to talk Maria into coming with me…’ Félicité caught her breath a little here. ‘She was too scared that they’d catch us. Even begged me to stay. You know, like, not… not to leave her alone.’

The girl resumed wiping make-up from her face to disguise both her tears and her sudden flush of shame. She fell quiet.

Élisabeth decided to stay quiet about the worsening conditions at Feurvel. Those disturbing details were only likely to upset Félicité. Or, rather, upset her more. Gently, she placed a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, sweetheart,’ Élisabeth said. ‘It’s not your fault that Maria chose to remain behind. You each made the decision you thought was best, and at your age you should never have had to make that decision at all. I’m sure she understood why you left, and I’m sure that in trying to persuade you to stay she was motivated essentially out of love and concern for you. You know, so many of the girls have been recaptured. You’re the first to have made it to safety, did you know that, Félicité, the first since the girls who went with the Allanean terrorists, and you may be the last, after they dramatically escalate security when they find out about you. I’m sure Maria will be delighted to learn that you made it to Xirnium, it may even give her strength. Maybe you could write her? Were you allowed to receive mail at Feurvel?’

‘Umm… yes, but not email.’ Félicité replied. She was of the generation where that was as good as not being allowed any communication with the outside world at all. ‘I had other friends there too. It wasn’t always awful. It was just… like, when it was awful, it was like really really awful. Maria was convinced we were going to be caught, all of us who broke out. She said she heard of girls who had been caught trying to escape before, like, a long time ago, but it was probably an urban legend or something, you know?’

Élisabeth nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said, lamely. Actually, she didn’t know whether it was the fact that girls had tried to escape from the prison school or the impliedly cruel treatment they had received upon being recaptured which was supposed to be the urban legend. What she did know was that no treatment, no matter how cruel, inhuman or degrading, would surprise her, and she would be very reluctant to dismiss it as an urban legend. Élisabeth was someone who kept both her feet on the ground; in her experience foreigners rarely did and Pantocratorians almost never. ‘As I said, I think Maria was right to be concerned. The Allanean terrorists who let you out were probably motivated as much by the idea of causing inconvenience and embarrassment to your Government as they were by any altruistic concerns for your welfare.’ More, undoubtedly.

The stewardess returned with two newspapers, one of which was the Imperial Monitor and the other the Evening Gazette, flown in from Närväryn by Air Xirnium and arriving at four in the afternoon. Then a deep, fatherly voice said, almost in their ears: ‘This is your captain speaking. We are about to take off. Will you please fasten your seat belts and extinguish your cigarettes. Thank you.’

The low hum of the turbo-jets rose to a shrill whine. The Myrta-Glorifloure W.154 rolled easily out to the East-West runway. There was a tremble against the breaks as the captain throttled up the trio of rear-mounted engines, one at a time, into a scream, and through the window Félicité saw the wing flaps being tested. Then there was a jerk as the breaks were released, and the lights on either side of the runway began to stretch as, gathering speed, the airliner hurtled down the one and a half miles of stressed concrete and then up into a quick, easy climb.

In ten minutes they had reached 30,000 feet and were heading east along the heading that takes the Europe-Atlantic traffic from Pantocratoria. The scream of the turbo-jets died to a low, drowsy whistle. The women unfastened their seat-belts.

‘Maybe you could send Maria a letter by snail mail,’ Élisabeth suggested. ‘When I was about your age I had a penfriend in Amestria. Our schoolteachers made us do it, for penmanship and French. But it was a good idea. We kept writing to each other for years.’

‘Penmanship.’ Félicité repeated the archaic word. ‘Is that like really a thing anymore? But I can write a paper letter to her. I hope they let her read it.’

‘Mmm. Are you trying to make me feel old, sweetheart?’ smiled Élisabeth. ‘Oh yeah, we all had to become able penmen,’ she recalled. ‘They taught us manuscript style, cursive handwriting; but I don’t think it’s “a thing” anymore. There are probably more Xirniumite copybooks in Allanean homeschool families than in Xirnium. But I’m not suggesting you write her by hand. You could type up a letter in a word processor,’ (were such computer programs even still called that, or was she just showing her age again?), ‘and print it out.’

‘Sorry, madame.’ Félicité blushed apologetically. Élisabeth had been so helpful to her that she couldn’t bear to make her feel old. Even if she sounded it. Penmanship? ‘So, umm, what is in the newspaper?’

Élisabeth offered her the Monitor, which had been running double-page and full-page spreads on the Feurvel escape for several days now, for Félicité to leaf through. There was unlikely to be anything new in the Evening Gazette, and it was in Middle Närvärynese anyway, but she fumbled through it just the same.

‘There was this Allanean talk show the other night during which some of the girls were interviewed,’ Élisabeth explained from memory as she let Félicité read. ‘Oh yeah, see, those are the other girls,’ she said, pointing at the page, ‘Marie-Angelique Fractie, and Konstantina Koszcatl, who should be in your year. So, like, Charlotte was a year a behind you, right?’ she frowned. ‘Hm, it doesn’t mention in that paragraph what they did. I think Marie-Angelique was supposed to be a prostitute and, like, Konstantina belonged to a gang, or something,’ she said, now that her memory had been jogged.

‘Konstantina Koszcatl…’ Félicité stumbled over the Indian name. ‘No, I don’t think she was in my grade. I remember her, erm, Marie-Angelique that is, from our Greek as a Second Language class. There were only a couple of classes worth of French-speakers across all the grades put together see. She was really gorgeous, actually, like, not pretty, like a dolly, she was like… I don’t know. The Greek teacher couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and he was like, pretty handsome really for a teacher, you know, and he was the only man, so all the girls were like, pretty shameless with him.’ She grinned, remembering their earlier conversation. ‘So you can add handsome Greek teachers to the list of things that made Feurvel not completely unbearable.’

Élisabeth laughed. ‘Okay,’ she smiled. ‘Noted.’

Félicité read over some stories about the girls which followed in the footsteps of their appearance on Lars Eagan’s show on ANN. She eventually started to cluck and shake her head.

‘I can’t believe they would put these girls, especially Marie-Angelique, on TV!’ Félicité eventually concluded. ‘I mean, like, what will people think of her, imagine all of that being public about yourself, it’s like Friendface on steroids. I bet you she gets creepy stalkers after her. I mean, like, obviously, there’s a few of us I would say didn’t deserve prison, and like, I don’t think anybody deserved Feurvel, not the way it was, but still, I mean, would you want people to know, if you’ll excuse me, madame, that you had put a cucumber, you know, there, and taken a picture of it? And like, thanks to the Internet, that never goes away. Like ever. I kissed a boy nobody liked at a party once on a stupid dare and the picture was all over Friendface for like six months. I mean, I don’t… I don’t think I’d want people to know that I was in prison and what I did to get there, you know? I mean, people I knew, that’s one thing, but like, strangers? Hey, that’s the girl who faked birth control prescriptions? Like, forever?’

Élisabeth had been slightly distracted as she scanned the Evening Gazette’s opinion page through the corner of her eye. Oh, that awful drunk, Hyàcinthe Verulâm, had written a new column. Hm. It was kind of hit and miss. On the one hand, he was undoubtedly spot on about Annabelle Barca’s ‘shrill, obnoxious, screeds’. ‘The work of an utter moral cretin’, ‘abnormally unintelligent, amazingly inarticulate’, and ‘intellectually and syntactically chaotic’. But his description of the Pantocratorian Empire as a ‘molochracy’ was kind of heavy-handed. And clearly nobody found him funnier than himself. ‘Every time that a girl is placed in Feurvel,’ declared the columnist, ‘the moral guardians spread out their hands upon her to burden her with the crimes of the people, vociferating: “They are not men but oxen!” and the multitude round about repeat: “Oxen! oxen!” The Action-Nationale exclaim “Lord! Eat!” and the United Christian Front comply through terror with the needs of the Pantocrator. Nevertheless, the appetite of the god is not appeased. He ever wishes for more.’

Just... wow.

‘Um, I don’t think you girls are all that bad...’ said Élisabeth negligently, then looked a little mischievous. ‘Well, I’m not sure about you,’ she said, touching her arm gently. ‘Those other girls, they just did stupid things, or were, you know, victims of the system, or whatever; you’ve clearly got the most devious criminal mind,’ she said, nodding. ‘I’m kidding. By the way, just regarding your question from earlier, in Xirnium your criminal record will be spent, or rehabilitated, or whatever, so it won’t be released for employment purposes. So nobody will know that you, you know, broke bad in high school.’ She covered her mouth. ‘Okay, now I’m done.

‘Great, because I wouldn’t want to try to make a living selling contraceptives without prescriptions in Xirnium.’ Félicité responded sarcastically with a bemused frown.

‘Oh, hey, speaking of your plans,’ said Élisabeth, looking at her seriously, ‘have you given any thought to where you might like to stay? You know, until your parents join you in Xirnium?’

‘Uhhh… well, no, actually...’ Félicité admitted. Given she’d basically been staying on the street for the days before she finally climbed the wall of the Xirniumite embassy, she hadn’t really worried about it too much. ‘Would umm, the Government, like, provide… some place for me to live? Or would I have to like, sort something out myself?’

‘Of course the Government wouldn’t just leave you to work this all out on your own, sweetheart,’ said Élisabeth. ‘Did you think that we would have gone to all the trouble of helping you flee from Pantocratoria only to, you know... Absolutely not. What I meant was that you have some options. I’ve spoken to Rupert about this, and he said that the Ministry could put you up in a hotel room, but I’m not sure that’s ideal for anyone, much less a child. What I was going to suggest. You know, if it’s something you want to think about. Was maybe you might like to stay with me, for a while. It could be some time until I’m posted abroad again, and I’ve plenty of room.’

‘Really, you wouldn’t mind?’ Félicité asked. The offer was very kind and spoke to a personal connection which Félicité now realised existed beyond Élisabeth’s professional duties alone.

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Élisabeth honestly. ‘In fact, I would very much like it if you accepted. Don’t feel that you have to, of course.’

‘No, I’d like to. Umm… do you, like, have anybody else living with you? Would they mind?’ Félicité inquired.

‘I have a grown daughter, Gretchen, who still lives at home, but I’m sure she won’t mind,’ said Élisabeth. Félicité was obviously wondering if the older woman was with anyone, or so Élisabeth assumed, but she figured the girl would be clever enough to work out that Élisabeth was divorced on her own. ‘She’s really friendly, I’m sure she’ll like you. She’s 25 and works in a law firm in the city,’ she added.

‘She’s not married?’ Félicité clarified. She couldn’t imagine that Gretchen would be married if she was still living with her mother, but foreigners had foreign ways after all. ‘Is she a lawyer?’

‘No, she’s not married,’ Élisabeth confirmed. ‘She says that she hasn’t found the right man yet, you know?’ Élisabeth looked thoughtful. ‘She’s works as a lawyer, yeah. Actually, she completed her articles of clerkship and was admitted to practice this August,’ Élisabeth said.

‘Wow.’ Félicité cooed. ‘She must be very smart. Thank you, madame, it is very kind of you to offer you own home like that. I’d like to stay with you very much.’

‘Excellent.’ Élisabeth looked very pleased. ‘It’s no trouble, and you’re welcome.’

[Xirnium]

Rupert Azrâghast to Sir Cyrus Fastonville.

EMBASSY OF THE ETERNAL REPUBLIC OF XIRNIUM,
New Rome, 5 November 2013.

MONSIEUR —

I beg to advise you that on the fourth instant at 11.49p.m. local time, a young Pantocratorian national, which the Eternal Republic later learnt to be Mlle Félicité Damienou (born 15 June 1998 in Thryantion, Pantocratoria, to M Phillipe and Mme Marie Damienou), convicted felon, entered without authorisation or licence onto the premises of the seat of the Eternal Republic’s Embassy in New Rome.

Mlle Damienou was not and has not been stopped, detained or taken by any Embassy personnel or other authorities of the Eternal Republic.

Upon meeting with me, Mlle Damienou requested asylum in the Eternal Republic’s diplomatic mission. I am enabled to forward you, enclosed, a statutory declaration made by Mlle Damienou, confirming the said request was ‘persistent, conscious, and freely made’, and acknowledging that before making the request she received independent legal advice from a legal practitioner as to:

• the effect of the said asylum on her rights
• the advantages and disadvantages, at the time the advice was provided to her, of requesting asylum.

It therefore becomes my duty instantly to inform you that, upon due consideration, I granted asylum to Mlle Damienou. In order to protect the privacy of the said asylee, the information required to determine whether the said asylum was proper, any judgements I formed, and the reasons for the grant of asylum shall remain strictly confidential.

The Eternal Republic requests the favour of the Pantocratorian Empire to respect the asylum granted to Mlle Damienou for the periodic of time strictly necessary for the said asylee to be allowed to depart from New Rome, and asks your Government’s indulgence, and trust, in the mean time, that it grant immediately the necessary guarantees, to the end that her life, liberty, or personal integrity shall not be endangered, as well as the corresponding safe-conduct.

The Eternal Republic shall assume responsibility for transferring Mlle Damienou out of Pantocratoria. Enclosed I hand you copies of two charts pointing out the preferred route for the departure of the said asylee, being the motorcade plan, from the Embassy, to New Rome International Airport, and the international flight plan, which shall be filed with the local Civil Aviation Authority prior to departure. En route, Mlle Damienou shall be considered under the protection of the Eternal Republic. I shall, however, pursue, to the letter, your instructions on the subject.

Once the departure of Mlle Damienou has been carried out, the Eternal Republic shall undertake to settle her in Xirnium. I am directed to assure you that, in the event that your Government formally requests the subsequent extradition of the asylee, the said request shall be considered in accordance with the ordinary judicial principles governing that institution at common law.

I have the honour to be, Monsieur, with high esteem, your obedient servant,

RUPERT AZRÂGHAST.

To the Hon Sir Cyrus Fastonville KPE MP,
Minister for Foreign Affairs of the Pantocratorian Empire.

[Pantocratoria]

PANTOCRATORIAN IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT

Office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs
Department of Foreign Affairs
PO Box 10000
New Rome 1455
Pantocratoria


6 November 2013

Acting Head of Mission
Embassy of the Eternal Republic of Xirnium
New Rome

Monsieur,

I received the missive of Monsieur Rupert Azrâghast, sent before his departure from Pantocratoria and indeed, before an evening engagement with me at which he might have discussed in person the matter outlined in the letter, namely, Mademoiselle Félicité Damienou, a convicted felon, and fugitive from justice.

I read with great displeasure that Mademoiselle Damienou was granted asylum by Monsieur Azrâghast.

As Monsieur Azrâghast would no doubt be aware, Mademoiselle Damienou escaped from His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel in the recent foreign terrorist attack on the juvenile detention facility. Monsieur Azrâghast would also be aware that Mademoiselle Damienou was convicted through due process of law in the Minor's Division in the Citizen's Court of a serious criminal offence, namely the trafficking, distribution and possession of a controlled substance, and fraud. These offences are named as such in Acts of the Imperial Parliament, and thus in granting an escaped convict who has been found guilty in a properly formed court of law of an offence criminalized by a democratically elected Parliament, Monsieur Azrâghast has demonstrated that he holds in contempt both democracy and the rule of law. The only alternative is that the Government of the Bright Republic holds the institutions of lawful democratic governance in contempt, a thought surely so absurd that only the former explanation is rational.

On behalf of the Imperial Government it is my responsibility to inform you that the unlawful grant of asylum to Mademoiselle Damienou will not be regarded as in any way legitimate, nor respected by officers of the Emperor's justice. Mademoiselle Damienou is a fugitive from justice and should she leave the grounds of the Xirniumite Embassy, along the routes Monsieur Azrâghast outlined in the charts attached to his letter, or along any other route, she will be pursued by police, and detained.

I therefore instruct you that should you seek to shield Mademoiselle Damienou from justice, you should keep her within the grounds of the Xirniumite Embassy. In the meantime, a legal appeal against Monsieur Azrâghast's grant of asylum to Mademoiselle Damienou will be lodged by the Pantocratorian mission to the Bright Republic. Should it be discovered that Mademoiselle Damienou has already been removed from the Xirniumite Embassy to Xirnium itself, then an immediate request for her extradition will be filed.

Should Mademoiselle Damienou wish to emigrate to the Bright Republic after the conclusion of her sentence, she is free to do so.

Yours Sincerely,

Cyrus Falstonville


Hon. Sir Cyrus Falstonville KPE MP
Member of the Imperial Parliament
Minister for Foreign Affairs
Knight of the Pantocratorian Empire

[Pantocratoria]

His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel
Feurvel, Central Pantocratoria

The black, Peacock Motors limousine with ministerial plates was subjected to the same new security procedures that other vehicles now underwent when arriving at Feurvel Prison School. From the back seat, Prince Constantine and Princess Morgan saw soldiers patrolling between the outer and inner fence, with large working dogs, and rifles at the ready. Constantine lamented that security had not been like this before the raid. Within a few minutes, the car was parked, and the Princess, the Prince and his ministerial staffer, a clean-cut, handsome young man with red hair named Philippe Ferges, emerged in the courtyard between Feurvel's main buildings. The flagpole flew the national flag alongside the battalion flag of the Army-provided guards, and an honour guard was assembled to greet the couple.

“I shouldn’t have said I was coming in Parliament…” Constantine lamented to Morgan, under his breath, and in English to minimize the chance of being understood even if he was overheard. “Now they’ll have done their best to cover everything up.”

Morgan nodded softly. “I know, Constantine,” she said as she looked out the window. Morgan sighed. The place was depressing.

“Sir, if I may,” Ferges piped up. “It may be better if you don’t find anything anyway, surely?”

“Politically, perhaps…” Constantine answered but seemed unconvinced. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Ferges would also speak English but nevertheless he hadn’t intended to be overhead, even by his aide.

At an ordinary school, if any minister, let alone a prince, were to visit, the students would of course be there to greet them, crowding around where the military honour guard now stood. Instead, the grey courtyard was empty. Morgan and Constantine may, at most, have glimpsed the occasional grey face looking out from a little window in the grey buildings.

“I have an idea…” Constantine began to Morgan, staying in English although he knew Philippe would understand. “What if we split up? They will be expecting us to stay together. They’ll follow me and Philippe about, no doubt, showing us what they want to show us, but you could get off the tour. What do you think?”

“I think it might help,” Morgan said. “It will be harder for them to control everything we see and if I justify it by saying I’d like to talk to some of the girls woman to woman, I think I could speak to at least a few of them candidly.”

Two women-in-charge types greeted the Prince and Princess (and acknowledged the existence of Philippe). The older of the two wore civilian clothing - a navy jacket and matching dress, a white blouse - and her hair pulled into a greying bun. About ten years younger, somewhere between the end of her thirties and start of her forties, was a tall woman, nearly as tall as Constantine, in a white dress uniform of the Imperial Army Legion. She wore the insignia of a Major, and her hair was still a healthy brown with no hint of grey, pulled up into an even more severe bun than her civilian colleague. On her belt she wore two holsters of white leather, one housing a dress uniform dagger (female officers carried these instead of swords), and the other a brilliantly shining chrome revolver with an ivory handle. The civilian curtsied and the officer saluted.

"At ease." Constantine smiled easily to the officer.

"Your Imperial Highnesses, Major Nicole Muret, at your service, sir." the officer reported. "Permit me to introduce Madame Jeanne Desinen, Acting Headmistress."

"Your Highnesses," Desinen, the civilian, said. "Your most humble and obedient servant."

"Splendid." Constantine replied. "Of course you know Her Highness, and this is my advisor, Monsieur Philippe Ferges. I expect you've an inspect tour arranged for me?"

Morgan inclined her head faintly. “Major, Madame.”

"Certainly, sir." Muret bowed. "If you'll condescend to follow us..."

"Splendid." Constantine nodded again, and started as if to leave before stopping to add. "Her Highness shan't be joining us. She'd like to have a wander, if you like. I trust you can assign her a female guard to unlock any doors and the like?"

"Uhh..." Muret began, taken by surprise. "Surely, madame would prefer..."

"I shouldn't tell madame what madame would prefer, if I were you." Constantine cut her off with a jocular warning. He gave Morgan a wink.

"Yes, sir." Muret began. "Very good sir. Pardon me, sir." she waved over the nearby sergeant. "Tell Corporal Blois to join Her Imperial Highness immediately, by my order."

"Yes, madame." the sergeant answered. He rushed off towards one of the buildings to retrieve the requested soldier.

"If it pleases Your Highnesses, one moment." Muret said. It was plain from the look on her face that she was not pleased by the idea of having Morgan wander about Feurvel without her. Morgan turned aside, ostensibly looking for the arrival of Corporal Blois but also trying to hide her expression from Muret.

Corporal Blois arrived, a young woman in her early twenties, clearly nervous that she had been summoned into the presence of royalty.

“Good afternoon, Corporal,” Morgan said cordially.

"Your Imperial Highness." the Corporal said stiffly, standing to attention and saluting. She was wearing regular duty fatigues so clearly it was not expected that the Prince and Princess would see her at all.

"You will escort Her Highness about the facility, Corporal." Muret instructed. She was clearly not pleased about it.

"Well, shall we begin our part of the tour?" Constantine prompted.

“Very good, monsieur.” Desinen nodded, and indicated towards the administration block.

Constantine, Philippe, and Muret followed Desinen on the official tour. Muret short a parting glance at the hapless Corporal Blois, who surely knew she was supposed to do something but didn't know what. Blois looked at Morgan.

“Where would you like to begin, madame?” the Corporal asked.

“The dormitories,” Morgan answered. “I would like to speak to some of the girls.”

“Very good, madame.” the Corporal nodded. “Most of the girls should be in class right now, madame, so we could start with the dormitories first then go to the classrooms, or I could ask for some girls to be sent from the classrooms to meet you in the dormitory immediately, madame.”

“Let them stay in class,” Morgan said. “I’ll speak to some of them when they get out.”

The Corporal led Princess Morgan off to the dormitory building, which entered into a predictably grey, stone and tile lobby. Signs indicated different rooms in different directions, but the dormitories themselves were up a spiral staircase. The Corporal led Morgan up the tightly spiralling grey stone steps. One level up, they stopped at a big, heavy wooden door.

“This dormitory is for the youngest girls at Feurvel, madame.” the Corporal reported. “Girls who turn twelve this academic year stay here. There aren’t too many of them, thanks be to God.”

The Corporal opened the door and held it open for Princess Morgan. The grey staircase gave way to a grey hallway, with a single window at the opposite end letting in natural light to supplement the bare bulbs which hung from the high ceiling overhead. On Morgan’s immediate left was a door labelled “Dormitory Mistress”, and on her right was a door labelled “Bathroom”. Beyond these were a dozen more doors, six on either side, with numbers on them, but most notable of all were their large external locking mechanisms, which looked original to the nineteenth century building. Each of these cell doors had a little orange light bulb over it, which looked significantly later than the nineteenth century, of course, and none of them were presently illuminated.

“The lights go on if a prisoner presses the call button on the inside of her cell, madame.” the Corporal explained. “Would you like to see one of the cells?”

“Yes, please, Corporal,” Morgan answered.

Corporal Blois opened the cell door, revealing a spartan, grey room beyond. There was a bunkbed with two grey bunks, the beds neatly made with grey sheets and grey blankets. There were two large dual wardrobe/dressers. There was a single window which did not open, with thick glass. There was a modest mirror for dressing, and the “call button” the Corporal had described, and of course, a crucifix hanging over it all.

Morgan took a few minutes to look around the room. She reached up and touched the window lightly. “Where do they keep their books?” she asked Blois.

"In lockers in the study hall, madame." Blois answered.

“They never study in their rooms?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, madame.” the Corporal answered. “There are no desks in their rooms.”

“Perhaps I could look in on a class,” Morgan suggested, “without the class being interrupted.”

“Very good, madame.” the Corporal nodded. “Please, this way, madame.”

The Corporal escorted the Princess back down the staircase and out of the grey dormitory and across the grey courtyard into a grey classroom building. Here she seemed to pause for a moment, as if trying to decide the best class to take Morgan to see, but when she decided it was much of a muchness, went to the nearest classroom on the ground floor. The Corporal went before Morgan to knock on the door, and the teacher, a middle-aged woman with soft features but sharp eyes, made her way over to the door and opened it. She saw the Corporal first, of course, but then she saw Morgan and recognized her from TV, newspapers, magazines, and so on, and was taken aback and said nothing but stood there stunned.

“Excuse me, madame,” the Corporal began innocently, apparently oblivious to the teacher’s flabbergastation. “Her Imperial Highness would like to look in on your class, without interrupting it.”

“Ahh…” the teacher stammered, and finally regained her wits. “Yes of course, please, at your service, Your Highness.”


There was a murmur from behind the teacher, as the students clearly heard the word “Highness” being bandied about. The teacher stepped back, and then motioned that the Corporal and the Princess were welcome into her classroom.

“Just pretend I’m not here, madame,” Morgan said politely, although fully aware that it was impossible. She stood near the doorway, folded her hands in front of her, and watched quietly as class proceeded.

As soon as she entered, some of the grey-dressed girls near the front thought to stand up, and shortly thereafter the rest of the class was standing as well. There were about twenty, all-told, all dressed in the same grey dresses, with numbers recently stitched onto them. The girls were all sixteen to seventeen, and Morgan would probably have noticed straight away a disproportionate number of ‘Indians’ among them. They all stood, heads slightly bowed in the presence of royalty just as Morgan would have experienced when she had visited normal schools in the rest of the country. The sombre classroom was decorated with a plaster Madonna, a particularly gorey Immolated Christ, and an official portrait of the Emperor, circa 1990 or so from the look of him. Although greyer than the average Pantocratorian classroom, it looked more or less typical, although perhaps straight away Morgan would have seen a girl two rows back who was next to bald, with just dark fuzz on her scalp where a long head of hair should have been.

Morgan started to raise a hand to prevent the girls from rising but then she lowered it. It would come off as ungracious, more than modest, and dismissive of their gesture of respect. They should feel like Pantocratorian girls and not just a problem being observed. Morgan inclined her head politely to them. “Thank you, girls. My husband and I are visiting your school and I simply wished to observe a normal class.” She gave them a smile and then turned to the teacher. “Please proceed as you normally would,” taking a step back to turn the classroom back over.

The students followed the instruction and sat down. Their teacher looked the most nervous of everyone in the room, but nevertheless attempted to resume her lesson from wherever it was up to when Blois had knocked on the door. Evidently, they had walked into a Christian Education class. As Morgan’s eye passed over the near-bald student again, she saw bruises around her neck, like purple finger marks, all the more obvious for the lack of long locks to conceal them. Perhaps more alarming, though, was the dead expression on the girl’s face. The rest of the class didn’t look particularly happy, either, but at least they looked alive.

Here and there Morgan caught a girl sneaking a look at the Princess while they thought they were unobserved, although they always looked away as soon as they realised she had caught them. Morgan tried not to catch them, even if it was a little amusing. She didn’t look that out of the ordinary to one who did not already know who she was. She was not dressed in the finery of the Imperial Court but in a well-tailored blue suit with a calf-length skirt and black boots in a fashionable style. She was a short woman with dark brown hair, pretty but not outstandingly so, at least not now that she was entering her thirties. She tried not to look too much at the girl with the bruises, although she certainly did notice her.

The class was remarkable more for how artificial and forced it seemed under observation. The teacher, despite her best intentions to run her class, which appeared to be about the Acts of the Apostles, in a discussion-based format, found herself filling in the blanks left by students too timid to venture an opinion in front of Morgan. Here or there, a student attempted to answer this question or that, but it was usually only with a single word. It was almost merciful when the teacher was “saved by the bell” indicating that the class should now finish.

“Thank you, girls,” the teacher told them. “Please complete your essays about St Peter tonight and bring them to class tomorrow, and please join me in thanking Her Imperial Highness for gracing us with her presence.”

The girls all stood up again and offered in one monotonic drone, as classes tend to whenever saying anything in unison: “Thank you Your Imperial Highness for gracing us with your presence.”

“And peace be with you.” the teacher added.

“And peace be with you.” the class agreed in droning unison.

“Thank you,” Morgan said. She then turned to Corporal Blois and spoke too quietly for the others to hear. “I’d like to speak to some of the girls privately.” The bruised girl wasn’t the first or the last girl Morgan gestured to. But she was one of the four.

“Yes, madame.” the Corporal nodded. As the class packed its things and started to file out of the room, the Corporal spoke up. “498, 401, 423, and 476, come here. The rest of you can go.”

The girls with those numbers stopped walking towards the door, and instead set their books and bags back down and waited by Blois and Morgan obediently. The teacher looked to Blois and Morgan tentatively.

“Madame, by your most gracious leave, I have another class to go to.” the teacher sought Morgan’s permission to leave the room.

“Of course,” Morgan said, inclining her head.

The teacher scurried out of the room, curtseying on the way, and left Morgan and Blois with 498, 401, 423, and 476.

Morgan sat down. “What are your names?” she asked the girls.

The girls, who all remained standing, of course, spoke one after the other in the order they had been called. This was part of the “new drill” (as the girls were calling it) introduced by the army-guards - everything now happened in a proper and predictable sequence, starting, in this case, with 498.

“Your Highness, my name is Phoebe Makarene, your servant, madame.” 498 said. Her French had a ‘Roman’ accent and by her looks she was half-Indian. She curtseyed in her grey dress as she said it, but very clumsily.

“Your Highness, I am Maria Philopolienou, your servant.” said 401, a curly-haired Roman girl.

“Your Highness, Marie-Thérèse Galatin, at your service, madame.” said 423, the bald, bruised girl, clearly a ‘Frank’ by her mainstream Pantocratorian French accent.

“Your Highness, Maria-Katerina Nayal, your servant, madame.” said 476, a particularly tall, thin Indian girl with long, straight black hair which, even pulled back into a regulation pony tail, reached the base of her spine.

“Please feel free to sit,” Morgan offered. “Corporal, would you give us a moment?”

“Madame?” the Corporal asked. When she realised she was being asked to leave the room, she started to panic as she was torn between the need to obey and the need to protect Morgan. “But madame, if something happens… I’m sorry, yes, madame, very good, madame.”

“I’m sure I’ll be all right, Corporal,” Morgan said reassuringly. “And I’ll yell for you if there’s a problem.”

She flashed a glare of fury and warning at each of the four girls now seated before Morgan, and left the classroom, hovering just outside the door if she was needed. Morgan could see her pacing nervously through the door window if she cared to look. However, if she had anything to fear from the prisoners, it did not take the form of a sudden attack. The girls sat still where they were. There was a sort of silent tension in the air, each girl both frightened about why Morgan might take an interest in her, but also wildly optimistic about what it might mean - each girl except 423, who just seemed dead inside.

“You’re not in any kind of trouble,” Morgan assured them. “I merely wanted to talk to some of you privately. My husband and I are here to investigate conditions at Feurvel. I want you to know that nothing you say to me will be attributed to you by name or repeated to the troops or to the staff. However, any problems you bring to my attention, I will look into personally and try to see resolved. I’d like to talk to you as a group for a little while and then to each of you individually.” She waited for acknowledgment from the girls before continuing. “So how do you feel since the military has taken over security? Is it better, worse, the same?”

“Madame…” began Phoebe Makarene, the half-Indian girl. She was tentative at first but grew bolder as she continued. “None of the girls like the Army being here, madame. They’re worse than the old guards. They’re terrible, madame, truly!”

The other girls nodded with various degrees of enthusiasm.

“And they’re men.” said curly-haired Maria. “They look at you and you don’t feel safe.”

“They gave us these numbers!” complained Maria-Katerina, the tall, full-blooded Indian. “And they only call us by these numbers. It’s humiliating.”

Morgan nodded. “I can see why that would be humiliating, Maria-Katerina. What about security before? How did you feel about that?”

“We didn’t like them either, madame.” Maria-Katerina admitted. “But at least they didn’t carry guns everywhere.”

“And call you names under their breath.” added Maria.

“The soldiers have called you names under your breath, Maria?” Morgan asked her.

“They say things, madame.” Maria nodded. Marie-Thérèse looked at the other girl and actually nodded in agreement.

“What things, girls?” Morgan pressed.

“They say rude things, some of them,” Maria said, nervous about repeating some of the things she had heard the soldiers call her and other girls in front of the Princess. “Things about how a girl looks, or… Umm… pardon, madame, but… usually they say things like… uhh… they say… they say whore, madame, or other things, I’m sorry, madame.”

“They should be sorry, not you,” Morgan said, frowning deeply as she listened to Maria’s complaint. “You can tell me anything they said. It’s just us girls here, after all.”

“They called me a slut, madame!” complained Phoebe. “But I’m not, honest.”

“Clumsy bitch.” Marie-Thérèse spoke up. “I got called a clumsy bitch when I ran into one of them while I was being chased.”

“Chased?” Morgan interjected.

“Yes, madame.” Marie-Thérèse said, her gaze dropping back down to the floor. “These girls chased me up the stairs, trying to hurt me. That’s… that’s how I got these bruises, madame.”

“Did the soldiers do anything else about this besides insult you?” Morgan asked.

“I didn’t tell him, madame, the soldier I mean.” Marie-Thérèse replied. “Eventually one of them found me afterwards, I guess.”

“How did you feel when the Allaneans broke in?” Morgan said. “Did that make you feel unsafe? What was it like?”

The girls were all quiet for a few moments, none seeming keen to be the first to answer this particular question. Maria-Katerina glanced at Marie-Thérèse, perhaps assuming she would speak up first. Eventually, Phoebe spoke.

“At first it was kind of scary, then it was… kind of exciting. And… like… empowering. They made Bu… ahh… Madame Bumonide, apologise to us for beating us, and Madame Prusit for… for how she searched us. But then, like, it got… I guess it got scary again when girls started to leave.” Phoebe said, looking to Marie-Thérèse as well now.

Feeling prompted to speak, the bald girl spoke up.

“At the time, it seemed… well…” Marie-Thérèse began. “It seemed like the most amazing thing, madame. Like somebody cared about us. Even if they were only foreigners, like Allaneans and whatever else.”

“Was Madame Bumonide beating you?” Morgan asked.

“She caned us.” Phoebe clarified. “In class. Madame.”

“For getting our homework wrong, madame.” Maria added. “In French Literature. Most of us are Greek-speakers, and it is hard not to make mistakes.”

“And Madame Prusit...how did she search you?” Morgan pressed gently, half afraid of the answer.

“She umm…” Phoebe began. She looked about but none of the others seemed to want to answer this one in her place. “She took a long time. Like, made us… She ummm… kept us naked longer than she needed to. I guess.”

“If she showed an inappropriate sexual interest in you, that’s to her shame, not yours,” Morgan said gently. “It’s not okay for an adult to treat you like that and it’s not something she should get away with. Is that what happened?”

“Yes, madame.” Phoebe answered. She still looked ashamed despite Morgan’s words. “To almost everyone, madame.”

“Then the Allaneans were too kind to her,” Morgan said. “Now, I’d like to speak to each of you alone for a few moments if that’s all right?”

The girls nodded compliantly, and took their turns talking to Morgan while the others waited outside. Marie-Thérèse came third. She sat across from the Princess, seemingly even more unable to make eye contact with Morgan than the other girls had been. When she was nervous or upset, she used to run her left hand through her hair, running it from her forehead to the crown of her head. Now, she just ran her hand over her bald head, over the slowly emerging fuzz which was gradually growing back. Instead of comforting her, as the nervous tick once did, this seemed to just make her wince, as if for a moment she had forgotten the hair was no longer there, but had reminded herself by reaching for it.

“That wasn’t the only time you were harassed, was it?” Morgan asked gently. “Other girls have been giving you a rough time?”

“Yes, madame.” Marie-Thérèse nodded. “All of the girls who escaped. The other girls blame us for the Army being here, and the numbers, and everything else. They shaved our hair, when we came back. Mine, and the other girls who escaped. Makes it easier to know who you can pick on without reprisal from the guards, I guess. And… and I had friends…” the bald-headed, bruised girl started to cry. “I deserve it, madame, it’s my fault.” she stammered between tears. “I helped them, my old friends, beat up girls, like… Charlotte Cucumber, we called her, and others, madame, and now… now it’s happening to me, because I tried to escape, I left them, and now they hate me, only… now everyone hates me, the guards, the teachers, the other girls, everyone, and… and they know nobody’s going to help me, or punish them for hurting me… I deserve it, madame, I did it, but now…” the sobbing escalated and escalated as Marie-Thérèse finally confessed, both her past sins and the grim reality of the situation in which she now found herself. “...now I’m so scared, madame… I’m sorry… I can’t make it right… I can only… take it… and I’m so scared, madame. I’m scared.”

Impulsively, Morgan reached out and hugged the girl tightly. “It’s going to be okay. I promise you. It’s going to be okay.” She held her until Marie-Thérèse calmed down. “Let’s make a deal.”

Marie-Thérèse eventually calmed down, as much from emotional exhaustion as from being held. As she calmed down and Morgan released her, she drew back a little to look the Princess in the eye.

“Madame?” she asked.

“It was wrong to bully other girls but you don’t deserve to be treated like this. The best way you can make up for it is to tell me anything that will let me help the girls here, anything the administrators and the military wouldn’t tell my husband and me. I’ll speak to my husband and see if we can get you transferred to another facility where you don’t have a history and aren’t likely to face the same sort of harassment. I can also make sure you have access to a counselor. I think that might help a lot.” Morgan offered.

“I don’t know, madame, what else to tell you.” Marie-Thérèse said. “I just… they’re trying to make it worse. To punish us, especially girls like me, who escaped. Please, help me, madame.”

“Well,” Morgan said thoughtfully, “do you know of any other girls in a similar situation?”

“All the girls who escaped, madame.” Marie-Thérèse said. “You can spot us easily, because we were all shaved bald when we were brought back.”

Morgan nodded. “Thank you for your help, Marie-Thérèse.” She rose then and walked with the girl back to the door. She was sure she could get the young woman’s individual case taken care of one way or another but, as for the former escapees as a group, she and her husband would have to have a rather long conversation.

[Xirnium]

They were approaching the end of the one month annual closing of Tulips. The club’s staff had to have their holidays; more importantly, there had been some painting to be done, and there were leaks in the picture gallery roof. Since the middle of last month, which was 15 Agrithdôre Bright Era MMMDCCXCV (or, 6 October 2013), those members still unfashionably in Närväryn had had to choose between The Temple and Grey’s. The Temple they considered too noisy and crowded; amongst Näväryn’s secret lodges it was one of the highest in prestige, wealth and show, but you had to have and wear a fez. Grey’s was too full of superannuated country squires in old-fashioned Norfolk jackets, and they chatted of nothing but the opening of the pheasant-shooting season.

At present the sentiment was largely against The Temple, though far from pro-Grey’s, although most were making do with the latter. Those with mothers of the Higher Blood had secretly resolved to try and take a third option, by applying for admission at The Roebuck’s Head when room became available. Florin had even expressed an interest in joining The Playing Card, Goddess help him. But most were at Grey’s.

Sir Alphege Xyryännä, GCVR, KCEE, MSRO, MA (Närväryn IX Vogàret), and cabinet secretary, could not care less; he had barricaded himself behind The Times-Advertiser in one of the bow window seats of Grey’s, looking out over Voralêmnar Street. He had the medicinal power of thermal bathing at the Gellêriel bath and spa on the Arthèdalar to look forward to and, in the meantime, had found this quiet corner, opposite the well of the staircase from the card room, where he and his beribboned colleagues could meet over lunch.

‘Now see here, Alphege,’ said Sir Urban Azânyar, GQC, also a University of Närväryn IX Vogàret alumnus (indeed, both were Wormwood College men) and governor of the Bank of Xirnium; he was a sixty-year-old man with a fluent, rhetorical pair of whiskers like a walrus and bushy eyebrows, a nose which had been broken and reset after a few failed experiments with walking through walls, and a thin black cord for the rimless eyeglasses that he seemed only to use to read menus. ‘What’s all this about a Pantocratorian exile, then?’

‘Eh?’ Sir Alphege rubbed his chin. ‘Actually, I’ve no idea what the foreign minister’s endgame is with that one, or even if he has one. Shed some light for us, Érnestine?’

Lady Érnestine z’Eldâryn, KCVR, OQC (not a noble despite the aristocratic participle), an alumna of the University of Närväryn VII South (Närväryn IX Vogàret’s great rival), and permanent secretary of the ministry of foreign affairs, scoffed. All three wore miniature ribbon rosettes on their suit lapels. ‘No endgame, no middlegame, not even an opening book. As far as I can tell, he’s giving our man in New Rome an opportunity to prove his aptitude, or something.’

‘This is the ambassador...?’

‘No, he’s not an ambassador.’ Lady Érnestine smiled thinly. ‘He’s just below that.’

‘Ah.’

‘You met him once, at the toastmasters’ inter-club meeting of Tulips and The Egoist.’

‘Ah. Don’t remember him at all.’

‘Well, the Panocratorians will probably be upset with him. So he might not even get to be ambassador.’

‘Why? It’s their own damned fault for not properly guarding the embassy quarter. If they had just caught that young lady before she climbed over our wall, then they could have flogged her and thrown her back into that miserable gaol and it needn’t have become any of our business. But once she was there the minister had to do something; national honour and compassion for travellers and all that. We should be the ones complaining. How dare the Pantocratorians put us in the position of having to do something.’

Sir Urban and Lady Érnestine nodded in agreement. You couldn’t help it when trouble found you.

‘Anyway,’ Sir Alphege continued, sounding kind of annoyed, ‘you just know the Pantocratorians are going to draw this all out with futile appeals and diplomatic protests; more work for everyone.’

Lady Érnestine let out a sigh. ‘And Action-Nationale types will probably start making a fuss outside our embassy. Again.’

‘I think that played not a small part in Rupert’s decision,’ Sir Urban observed. ‘Wouldn’t be a good environment for a young lady.’

‘So all of this is just going to be an inconvenience,’ Sir Alphege summarised.

Lady Érnestine nodded and returned to her lunch, a grilled plaice with parsley butter and the ripest spoonful she could gouge from the club Roquerfort. Sir Urban picked up the cigar cutter which the head waiter had left on the table and guillotined the tip of his cigar with precision; he lit a strike-anywhere match and waved its flame to and fro across the tip, sucking gently until he had got the cigar going to his satisfaction. And Sir Alphege took a sip, first of his brandy and then at his coffee, occasionally turning a page of The Times-Advertiser to demonstrate that he was actually reading it.

‘If I might interject...’

They started and turned their heads towards the small, friendly dapper man who had seemingly materialised beside them, automatically smiling, without their notice. He had iron-grey hair, a carefully-brushed moustache and a black monocle covering his left eye.

‘“E”,’ said Sir Alphege by way of hello. He pulled out his pipe and started to fill it with Eysenck Aromatic Ottoman Blend.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ apologised (Head of) “E”.

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Érnestine. ‘You just kind of loomed there. Join us.’

‘Thank you.’

Head of “E” did not look like the kind of man who worked for the Secret Service Bureau; he looked like any visitor at Grey’s. Dark grey lounge suit combined with double-breasted cotton waistcoat, stiff white collar, the favourite figured foulard bow tie in dark blue, rather loosely tied, the fine silver chain of a fob watch. Appointed lieutenant colonel and commanding officer of the XIV Battalion of the Army of the Southern Association in Bright Era MMMDCCLXXXVII, now retired (Sir Alphege recalled), a companion of The Most Honourable Military Order of the Cradle Song and recipient of the Volunteer Reserves Officer’s Decoration, and ‘something at the Ministry of Defence’.

Sitting at their table, Head of “E” crossed his legs and tugged at his trouser-knee, ordering half a carafe of heady hippocras, heavy with cinnamon, almond and musk. Sir Urban offered the cigar case to their guest (‘The best of the Ottomans are quite up to the Snefaldians these days.’). Head of “E” shook his head; implausibly, he didn’t smoke.

‘So. The Pantocratorian situation...’ said Lady Érnestine.

Sir Alphege seemed to be having difficulty getting his pipe going. Head of “E” waited patiently.

‘A succession of cumulatively bad economic decisions has put the United Christian Front in something of a jam,’ said Head of “E”. ‘And the Allanean regime has let its twitchy trigger-finger get the best of it, again.’

Sir Alphege said vaguely, between puffs: ‘Surely there must be some way we could use this whole tedious situation to our benefit.’

‘As it stands, the UCF may have to choose between their social and their economic policies,’ continued Head of “E”. ‘And they’ll not want to make that choice.’

‘Always stupid to back your opponent into a corner when it isn’t necessary,’ Lady Érnestine put in.

‘I propose we help them avoid that choice,’ finished Head of “E”, mischievously.

‘Help rescue the Peacock Group?’ Sir Urban ventured.

Head of “E” nodded. ‘Exactly. And in exchange for this help, perhaps they might be willing to enter into a joint venture with, say, the Silverflyte Holdings Corporation, and relocate some of their operations to the Bright Republic. I expect even the least imaginative are looking for alternatives to having so much invested in Allanea. Only a short stop to exiting the place entirely.’

‘Is the money available though?’ Sir Urban wondered.

‘Treasury’s putting together a blue paper on the subject,’ said Head of “E”. ‘And of course this will deal a nice satisfying defeat to the Allaneans, which we all know is what is really important.’

There was a moment of unanimous agreement.

‘I think this is a splendid idea,’ Sir Urban remarked, already planning things out in his head. ‘Get this into a green paper and circulate it amongst the right people within the Group of Five and it will become the default policy. Perhaps we could do the job properly for once.'

‘Yes,’ agreed Sir Alphege. ‘No silly national interests, by which ministers invariably mean party interests. No bright ideas, by which they mean popular ideas. No taking a stand, by which they mean grandstanding. Just straightforward deal making. Even ministers can handle that.’

‘One other thing,’ Head of “E” added. ‘Our new guest doesn’t only have to be a bother. She could present an opportunity, which we could use to our advantage.’

‘I’m sorry, I don't quite follow,’ said Lady Érnestine. Done with her lunch, she took a sip from a faceted tumbler filled with ‘Very Old Stag’ sourmash bourbon, water and plenty of ice. She let it roll over her tongue, breathing in slightly over it, before swallowing.

‘Well, your advantage,’ said Head of “E”. ‘By which I mean, the Bright Republic’s advantage, of course.’

Lady Érnestine waved her hand dismissively. ‘“What” benefit, not “whose”... you’re not suggesting doing something more for these poor girls, are you?’

‘Perhaps,’ answered Head of “E”.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Sir Alphege. ‘What more can be done? We’ve already taken in one stray, and Immigration’s probably going to give our man in New Rome a nice talking to for that when he gets back. We don’t want any more of them taking shelter in our embassy.’

‘This isn’t the Humane Society,’ agreed Sir Urban.

‘And we’re not lodging a protest over those prisons,’ said Lady Érnestine. ‘It’s not our charge. Besides your first plan involves smoothing feathers, not ruffling them further.’

‘No, no,’ Head of “E” assured them. ‘Nothing like that. Something entirely different. I have what I think could be a rather bright idea.’

‘Maybe you should be a minister,’ Lady Érnestine congratulated him.

Head of “E” gave her a nasty glance.

Lady Érnestine laughed. ‘Sorry, “E”. No offence.’

[Pantocratoria]

La Maison Française
New Rome

The flight home from Reichskamphen had been long and Princess Marie looked back on it with a cringe, now that she was safe and sound back in New Rome with her parents. The plane had left Greater Prussian airspace for not more than five minutes than Marie had gorged herself on a chocolate banana split and an intemperate quantity of champagne. The stress and adrenaline which had sustained her through her visit to that cold and alien place where she had been humiliated by as many people as had an opportunity to mistreat her as possible finally left her system, leaving her hungry and in desperate need for a drink. She especially cringed as she remembered her efforts to encourage the dutiful but oh-so-handsome Lt Erikssen to join them for a champagne as she and Françoise gorged themselves on ice-cream and alcohol. The always proper Swede (or was he Norwegian? Varangians all looked alike.) declined, of course, and as the ladies approached the end of their second bottle, he removed himself from their cabin altogether. It was just as well, because not long after that Marie could remember vomitting into the toilet bowl - not because she was purging after eating the banana split but as a simple reaction to too much alcohol consumed at too high an altitude. Marie couldn’t even remember her ladies dressing her before the landing, although she assumed it had to have happened - but she could remember her mother’s face as she squinted at her through the bright lights of the Imperial Family’s terminal at New Rome International Airport, her head throbbing.

“What have those barbarians done to you?” Princess Jacqueline had asked in evident concern as she rushed to embrace her daughter, who had winced at the volume of her mother’s voice.

Several days later, Princess Marie had been officially debriefed by the diplomats and officials from the Department of Foreign Affairs, and she was enjoying some quiet time with her parents in one of the Imperial Family’s private residences in the capital. La Maison Française was a three storey late eighteenth mansion in the Sixth District, just outside of the Old Quarter. Built originally for King Louis XVII of France, the King had never lived there, but the house retained the name “French House” nevertheless. Like the other buildings in the Sixth District, it was built more or less straight onto the street, had only a modest garden at the back, and abutted on either side its neighbours of similar age and class. It had a staff of eight servants and at the moment it also housed four of the Varangian Guard, including Stig Erikssen. Compared to the imposing Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, it was small and informal, a place where Marie and her older sister and her parents had all-too-occasionally been able to live privately for a few brief weeks each year. In the Imperial Family’s equivalent of “slobbing about”, Princess Marie was sitting in an overstuffed brown leather chair in the upstairs library (which smelt permanently like cigar smoke although nobody had smoked in the room for years), wearing a comparatively casual modern dark green winter dress instead of the corsets, lace and underskirts of the New Rome court fashion she’d be wearing back at the palace before too much longer. She had even taken her shoes off and had her black-stockinged legs tucked up underneath her as she leaned on an over-stuffed brown leather arm of the excessively large armchair, and was playing the game Sweet Smash Chronicle on her PeacockPad as her mother entered the room.

“Reading the Internet?” Princess Jacqueline asked. The older woman was a natural beauty, still youthful-looking, fit and slender although she was over fifty, and always immaculately put together, even when she was relaxing away from the Court. Marie often felt inadequate when comparing herself to her mother, and suppressed the urge to do so at that instant, while Jacqueline looked especially lovely in the soft winter sunlight through the library window, in a form-clinging white wool cardigan.

“Uhh, yes, no matter, it can wait.” Marie answered, pressing the home key and then locking her PeacockPad and setting it down on the cushion next to her.

“You look so little in that huge chair…” Jacqueline began, sitting down on a less imposing couch to Marie’s side, opposite the window.

Little? Marie’s mind raced as she went through the permutations of what she assumed was her mother’s hidden meaning. She smiled weakly in response.

“Petite, what happened in Reichskamphen?” Jacqueline asked. “You told your father you were robbed at gun point. How awful! Come, tell me.” Jacqueline patted the cushion next to her on the couch.

“Maman, it was awful.” Marie said, relieved that the remark about her looking little in her chair seemed a precursor to invite her closer as opposed to a remark about her weight. She slid her legs out from underneath her and hopped out of her chair onto the thick Persian carpet on the polished wood floor of the library. She thought briefly about retrieving her shoes, a pair of black leather pumps with five inch heels (which surely wouldn’t have been necessary for loitering about the house in any other family), but decided to leave them where they were for the few brief steps across the carpet over to where her mother was sitting.

“They stole your pearls?” Jacqueline nodded, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders as she sat down next to her.

“Yes. Not just my necklace and jewels, but all of the pearls, over my bodice and skirt, the whole dress was covered in pearls.” Marie complained. “I felt helpless, and humiliated. But you know what I surmised later, which was worst of all?”

“No?”

“You mustn’t tell Father.” Marie insisted. “He’ll get angry and demand some sort of apology or action which the Allaneans and Reichskampheren won’t take, of course, and that’ll just make everything worse.”

“I can’t keep secrets from your father, petite.” Jacqueline protested.

“Maman, you must.” Marie continued. “Or I can’t tell you. Please, swear it.”

“Marie!” Jacqueline frowned, and withdrew her arm from her daughter’s shoulders. “You mustn’t ask me to swear to keep secrets from your father!”

“Mother!” Marie said, surprisingly assertively. “I went to Reichskamphen on a diplomatic mission, not a holiday. I performed my duty, although much of it was odious and humiliating, but it was my job, and I did it. I’ll not have my work undone because of the foolish pride of men, and that is precisely, Maman, what would happen, if you told Father any of what I tell you. Now swear you will not tell him anything I tell you now, or I shan’t speak of it.” She folded her arms and set her jaw, and awaited a response.

“You can be so self-righteous when you want to be.” Jacqueline pouted. “It’s the double-dose of purple blood, I suppose. Fine, my child, I promise I will not tell your father anything you do not wish me to tell him.”

“Good.” Marie sighed, and smiled. She took a moment to bask in her quiet triumph, before proceeding. “The Emperor of Greater Prussia has an adopted daughter, you know?”

“Yes, a metahuman girl, with wings, like an angel.” Jacqueline nodded.

“She looks angelic, yes.” Marie nodded. “Well she has a boyfriend.”

“Oh, yes, I have heard that too.” Jacqueline breathed in, a look of evident disapproval and distaste on her face. “It’s unbecoming in a princess.”

“Maman! Helen posed in her underwear for a calendar sold all around the world!” Marie reminded her.

“It was artistic!” Jacqueline protested.

“Voyeuristic.” Marie insisted. “So the Princess Imperial of Greater Prussia has a boyfriend. The world will not end.”

“It was different.” Jacqueline persisted but her tone conceded the point. “So yes, the Princess Imperial has a boyfriend. Who is he? A baronet of no particular consequence, if I recall?”

“He was the one who robbed me.” Marie said. “He was in disguise, but I’m sure of it.”

“What?!” Jacqueline gasped. “Marie, no, that’s ridiculous.”

“It can be both ridiculous and true at the same time.” Marie replied. “Many things in that country are. In fact, many things in both of our countries are.”

“Well why would he rob you?” Jacqueline asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s criminally insane.” Marie shrugged. “Or maybe they just wanted to shake me up and put me in my place before my audience with Their Majesties.”

“Put you in your place?” Jacqueline asked. “They? You don’t mean that the Emperor of Greater Prussia had his daughter’s boyfriend rob you at gunpoint to scare you before meeting him, surely?”

“He might have done.” Marie shrugged, although she had to admit it sounded implausible when another person said it out loud like that.

“Why would he want to scare you?” Jacqueline asked.

“Well, I don’t know if he did, I mean, about the robbery, anyway…” Marie said. “But, he definitely wanted to scare me when I met him, whether he organized the hold-up or not.”

“What do you mean, wanted to scare you?” Jacqueline inquired.

“Maman…” Marie began, nervously. “You won’t tell Father anything, will you? In fact, you won’t tell anybody anything of what I am going to tell you now, will you?”

“Marie, you’re scaring me.” Jacqueline said. “Why do you keep asking me this? What did he do?”

“I know this sounds… well, I know how it sounds.” Marie said, bracing herself both against her mother’s impending reaction and against the memory of the thing. “After I had presented myself and my credentials, and given all my gifts, Kazansky… the Emperor… he showed me a video. He and the Empress. It was, a video, umm… it was a pornographic video.”

“What?!?!” Jacqueline almost shrieked.

“A pornographic video.” Marie repeated. “Of a woman… with umm… with a mobile phone. She was… using it to uh… pleasure herself.”

“Marie! This is too much!” Jacqueline seemed almost angry. “You are claiming in all seriousness that you were presented to the Emperor and Empress of Greater Prussia in the palace, gave them gifts, even gave away the diamonds your father bought you, you told him, and then the Emperor of Greater Prussia showed you a… blue movie?”

“Yes, Maman.” Marie nodded seriously. “And then the Empress made me watch Iron Man to cheer me up.”

“Marie…” Jacqueline despaired. “You… have you been taking those diet pills again?”

“Maman!” Marie exclaimed, tears now appearing in her eyes. “I’m not making this up! And you know what else? The woman in this pornographic movie, she looked exactly like me. I don’t know if they did it with computers or how they did it. Exactly like me, Maman!”

“Wh…” Jacqueline held her tongue. She thought about it for a little while. Yes, it sounded absurd, but if Marie was telling the truth, what would be the purpose of such a thing. “Extortion? Did they threaten to release the video?”

“Not in so many words. It was suggested, though.” Marie answered.

“What did they want?” Jacqueline asked.

“They had demands, which I have passed on to the Government.” Marie answered.

“But what did they want from you? To stop them releasing this filth?”

“I supposed at first they wanted me to twist the Government’s arm…” Marie began. She wiped away the beginnings of the tears which had started before and now had a strange air of calm about her. “But then I supposed they had to realise that, since the Government had handed me over to them to humiliate me like they did, knowing full well that the Emperor of Greater Prussia is not a man for negotiation, but for ultimatums, that I was, as I am, somebody without any ability to influence the Imperial Government’s policy. They knew that. I said I came in hope of being friends. Didn’t Machiavelli say something about trusting people whose loyalty you buy or coerce over your friends?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” Jacqueline frowned.

“Well, maybe they do.” Marie concluded, crossing her arms.

“But my little dear,” Jacqueline began, still incredulous. “What could anybody hope to gain from coercing your loyalty?”

The words stung more than the question about diet pills had. Marie’s face didn’t show that her mother had unintentionally hurt her by saying them, but she was silent for a few seconds before replying.

“Well, quite.”

“My poor petite,” Jacqueline cooed, hugging her daughter. She rested Marie’s head on her shoulder and ran her hand through her hair soothingly. “Robbed at gun point by the Princess’ gallant in disguise, and… Heavens I don’t even know what to say about what the Emperor of Greater Prussia did to you at the palace. What an ordeal…”

“I was strip-searched at the airport too, when I arrived.” Marie recalled. It seemed by far the least traumatic part of her trip hitherto.

“What in God’s name for?” Jacqueline asked in surprise.

“Just to humiliate me I suspect. They acted as if it was normal airport procedure.” Marie snorted. “The Reichskamphenite constable even clucked and condescended to me about my corset with oh so helpful advice and concern.”

“How horrid.” Jacqueline frowned at the thought of a policewoman being over-familiar with her daughter.

“It set the tone.” Marie observed.

“My poor dear.” Jacqueline cooed again.

“Maman,” Marie began patiently, allowing her mother to stroke her hair and embrace her although she felt strangely not in need of being comforted in either fashion. “You know I didn’t tell you these things because I wanted to cry on your shoulder, I hope?”

“Hmm?” Jacqueline wasn’t sure she understood. “You look like you need a shoulder to cry on.”

“I always look like that, Maman.” Marie said patiently. She was eerily calm. “I have the look of a wounded gazelle. That’s why His Majesty sent me to the lions.”

“Marie, you’re talking strangely…” Jacqueline said uneasily. The hair stroking stopped.

“His Majesty sent me so that they could toy with me. I’m quite sure he didn’t know how they would do it, but he knew they would.” Marie said. She had known it for a while but she hadn’t said it to another human being until now. It felt somehow empowering. “Maman, he knew they would see the fear in my eyes and think it real. Which was easy, because it was real. And is real. He knew they would find me convincing. And Maman, I was convincing.”

“I think you should rest, Marie…” Jacqueline said, slowing pulling away from her daughter.

“Just know that I was good, Maman.” Marie told her, as she sat up straight again. “I really was. I played my part. I gave my message and my gifts and let them toy with me, and looked like a frightened, wounded gazelle for them, just like they wanted me to be.”

“This isn’t healthy, Marie.” Jacqueline insisted, and stood up. “Talking like this, it’s quite strange, you know.”

“I know, Maman.” Marie agreed. “Which is why I know you won’t tell anybody, like you promised.”

“I could book you to see a therapist, under a pseudonym of course…” Jacqueline began.

“Mother, I’m fine, you…” Marie snapped in irritation. “Just, from time to time I might ask you to do things, things which are within your power at Court. Please trust that I will be asking you to do them for a good reason.”

“I… excuse me, Marie, I need to… fix my make-up.” Jacqueline excused herself.

“Please, Maman, trust me!” Marie entreated.

“Good Heavens, what sort of things do you mean to ask me to do?” Jacqueline snapped back.

“I don’t know yet.” Marie answered truthfully. “I suppose it will have something to do with deciding which ladies may be presented at Court.”

“I couldn’t possibly be part of besmirching the reputation of the Imperial Court!” Jacqueline protested.

“Heaven forbid!” Marie rolled her eyes. She got out of the couch and stood up, and instantly regretted not retrieving her shoes earlier, as she now found herself about five inches shorter than her mother, whose heeled tan leather boots now permitted her to look down upon her daughter through the argument. “Please, trust me, I am not the vaguely ridiculous figure you may think I am! I would not ask you to let ladies of the night parade their wares about the halls outside the palace chapels!”

“Marie!” Jacqueline crossed herself.

“…Just to occasionally lean more this way or that in your decisions!” Marie insisted. “Maman, it’s for the good of the nation!”

“Do you think you’re your father, lecturing me about the good of the nation?” Jacqueline demanded, angrily. “Who are you?”

“I’m somebody, Maman!” Marie answered. “I’m not… just an… ornamental woman!”

The words stung her mother back several times as hard as her mother’s words to hear had done earlier. Jacqueline set her jaw firmly and her lips thinned into a grimace.

“I see.” Jacqueline answered, an unsettling tone of quiet, barely suppressed rage. “I will await my instructions then, mademoiselle, trusting in your good judgement.”

“Thank you, Maman.” Marie answered meekly, feeling immediately guilty about insulting her mother.

“Just remember when you are done playing these… men’s games… how proper ladies should behave.” Jacqueline told her, before spinning on her high-heeled boots and leaving the library.

Marie’s hollow victory tasted bitter sweet as she reclined back into her chair. She reached for her PeacockPad, then changed her mind and instead stood up, and strode over towards a great silk rope, which she pulled. Once it would have rung a bell in the servant’s quarters below, but instead now she heard the buzzing of an intercom which had been installed a decade ago.

“Your Highness?” asked the servant’s voice through the intercom.

“Bring me a double chocolate banana split, please.” Marie sighed. “No cherries.”

[Pantocratoria]

PANTOCRATORIAN IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT

Office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs
Department of Foreign Affairs
PO Box 10000
New Rome 1455
Pantocratoria

Hon. Maverick Monningham
Secretary of State
Kingdom of Allanea

In Strictest Confidence

Mr Secretary,

I object to the tone of your preceding missive and further find that it appears quite to have misinterpreted my previous offer and the circumstances under which it was made. Certainly, my offer was not “cheap trickery” but an effort to negotiate. I shall endeavour to speak more plainly in this letter.

First, I would like to point out to you the natural concern any potential foreign investor would rightfully have about establishing manufacturing or other business operations in Allanea if any action is taken against Peacock Motors on the basis of the highly contrived and tortured logic by which your department has misclassified Pantocratoria. To do so would establish a precedent whereby foreign investment in Allanea was subject to a high sovereign risk and was therefore discouraged.

Second, with respect to your demands, I am prepared to address them in detail:

-The so-called ‘Heir Exemption’ to the marital rape laws will be removed in the next session of Parliament as discussed in my previous letter.

-Pantocratoria’s national dress code is in no way related to any conceivable topic at hand. The reinstatement of a moderate national dress code was a key part of the Government’s election manifesto and as such, its repeal is off the table.

-On the topic of an amnesty for Feurvel inmates, I previously offered a review of convictions at Feurvel. Since the time of my last letter, His Highness the Prince Constantine, the Minister for Public Safety, has visited His Majesty’s Prison School for Girls at Feurvel. At his recommendation, the facility is being closed for major refurbishment and restructuring. For logistical reasons, the Imperial Government will commute the sentence of all inmates of His Majesty’s Prison School for Girls at Feurvel for non-violent offenders to a non-custodial sentence such as parole or house arrest, to be determined on a case-by-case basis. Violent offenders will be placed in foster homes under the care of especially trained foster parents or, in the case of serious violent offenders, into a temporary underage facility to be established shortly, for the remainder of their sentence.

-On the topic of recent increases in fines for firearm offences, those increased will be rolled back.

-On the topic of ISPs and mobile telephony service providers being obliged to monitor picture messages for illicit content, the Attorney-General has been instructed by Cabinet to prepare a suite of measures to guarantee that such monitoring power is only used within the constraints of a court-issued warrant for search/interception of traffic.

-On the topic of the treaty we have been negotiating with New Edom, we would be prepared to set that treaty aside if we had an agreement to resume unrestricted trade between our two nations, and if the Allanean Embassy in New Rome re-opened.


I trust that this offer will be more to your liking than my last.

Yours Sincerely,

Cyrus Falstonville

Hon. Sir Cyrus Falstonville KPE MP
Member of the Imperial Parliament
Minister for Foreign Affairs
Knight of the Pantocratorian Empire

[Allanea]

Official Message from the Allanean Ministry of Foreign Affairs

Hon. Sir Cyrus Falstonville KPE MP
Member of the Imperial Parliament
Minister for Foreign Affairs of the Pantocratorian Empire

Dear Sir!

I will happily meet with you for final negotiations based on the statement of intent you have forwarded to me, with the aim of restoring good relations between our countries. A clarification, however, is desired: why does Pantocratoria consider ‘house arrest’ to be a non-custodial sentence? As final negotiations commence, we assure you that we will be carefully monitoring the situation at Feurvel, to ensure that the inmates are dealt with in good faith, as asuring their transfer to proper structures is now the responsibility of both our governments - yours, obviously, and ours, since it has already given the girls such an assurance that it is interested in their wellbeing. Surely you thus understand our interest in the appropriate conclusion of this affair.

As a gesture of good will we will hereby reopen our embassy in New Constantinople pre-emptively, before the final negotiations commence.

Yours Sincerely,
Maverick Monningham,
Minister of Foreign Affairs
Free Kingdom of Allanea

[Pantocratoria]

PANTOCRATORIAN IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT

Office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs
Department of Foreign Affairs
PO Box 10000
New Rome 1455
Pantocratoria

Hon. Maverick Monningham
Minister for Foreign Affairs
Kingdom of Allanea

In Strictest Confidence

Excellency,

To clarify my use of the term "non-custodial sentence" and my application of it to house arrest, the term is an abbreviation and I apologise for not explaining it more completely. A sentence of house arrest is "non-custodial" in that the convicted is not held in the custody of the Prisons Department. I have sought clarification from the Minister for Public Safety, and I am able to report to you the usual procedures for the house arrest of a minor:
-A school-age minor child will be allowed to attend their school during the usual school hours. The legal guardian will transport the school-age minor child to and from school, or else make arrangements satisfactory to the local police department for the same. Their legal guardian will furnish the local police department with information pertaining to the school-age minor child's school enrolment, the school's hours, any compulsory extra-curricular activities in which the school-age minor child is engaged, and, if deemed necessary by the local police department and Crown Prosecutor, the route by which the school-age minor child will be transported to the school (in cases where protection orders may apply, or where the Crown Prosecutor has concerns pertaining to particular geographic locales potentially en route to the school). The school-age minor child will not be permitted to be involved in non-compulsory extra curricular activities.
-The school-age minor child will stay in the home of their legal guardian under the supervision of the same outside of school hours, excepting general circumstances for prisoners under house arrest.
-All prisoners under house arrest will remain in their homes or on their grounds, except to attend Mass or family gatherings, with prior notice to the local police department (which may seek details, clarification, and may decline such requests if they have reason to believe that the prisoner under house arrest may contact a known criminal associate at such an event).
-Prisoners under house arrest may also leave their homes or their premises in order to seek medical attention. Medical certificates are to be obtained from treating physicians and provided to the local police department.
-All prisoners under house arrest will submit themselves to such location monitoring as deemed appropriate by their local police department, including by means of surveillance or technological contrivance. Such location monitoring must respect the privacy of other persons residing with the prisoner under house arrest.
-Prisoners under house arrest are not, under any circumstances, to make contact with any of their criminal associates, as defined by the Crown Prosecutor.
-Prisoners under house arrest who commit a crime while under house arrest must be transferred back into the custody of the Prisons Department for the remainder of their sentence.

Further, I thought to clarify the circumstances under which prisoners at His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel would have their sentence commuted to parole or to house arrest:
-Prisoners convicted of non-violent crimes in which they endangered themselves or others would each be subject to an assessment by their assigned social worker at His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel. If found to still be a danger to themselves or others, the prisoner would have her sentence commuted to house arrest. If found by that assessment to no longer be a danger to themselves or others, then the prisoner would be paroled.
-Prisoners convicted of any other non-violent crimes would be paroled.

Contrary to your previous letter, the transfer of prisoners at His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel to a temporary facility or to house arrest or parole as appropriate is the responsibility alone of the Minister for Public Safety and is not shared between our governments. If your government would like to send a modest number of observers, then this would be acceptable, providing the Minister for Public Safety was first allowed to vet the observers to ensure that they were proper persons to observe the circumstances of underage minor children, and that such observers agreed to be bound by a non-disclosure agreement permitting them to report to your government freely and without fetter, or to bring to the Imperial Government's attention in confidence any concerns they may have, but preventing them from speaking to the press or other private persons about these matters, in order to protect the privacy of the prisoners, families and public servants concerned. The Minister reserves the right, under similar terms, to invite international observers from other nations. I hope such arrangements will satisfy Your Excellency's sense of moral responsibility to the prisoners at His Majesty's School for Girls at Feurvel and will help to assure you that their cases are dealt with equitably.

I look forward to the reopening of the Allanean Embassy and would be happy to discuss with His Excellency the Ambassador any remaining details, if you preferred for such negotiations to happen face to face, rather than through written correspondence.

Yours Sincerely,

Cyrus Falstonville

Hon. Sir Cyrus Falstonville KPE MP
Member of the Imperial Parliament
Minister for Foreign Affairs
Knight of the Pantocratorian Empire

[Pantocratoria]

Imperial Parliament
PARLIAMENTARY DEBATES

Pantocratoria, Parliamentary Debates, vol. no. 123, Feast of St. Celestine V (19 May), 40 Andreus I Capet (2014), Yellow p. 13

The Hon. Lord Speaker: His Highness the Honourable the Minister for Public Safety, with a ministerial statement.

Honourable Members: Hear, hear!

HIH The Hon. Prince Constantine Porphyrogenitus (UCF): Thank you my Lord Speaker. I rise to inform the house that I have instructed the Prisons Department to temporarily close His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel, for an as yet undetermined period of time, in order to facilitate major refurbishment of the building and restructuring of its operations. The need for this refurbishment and organisational restructure has been made apparent by my recent visit to the facility at Feurvel after the attack by foreign terrorists on the school, the abduction of several minor children from the prison school, and the consequent escapes. It is all too apparent that the interim arrangements made by the Government in good faith in the immediate aftermath of the terror attack, namely, deploying military police to assume control over the prison operations, is neither an appropriate long-term arrangement from an operational perspective, nor from a pastoral one.

Before such distinctions are overlooked, as they all too often are, in a cloud of press hysteria, I remind the house that although the inmates of Feurvel are prisoners, they are first and foremost children. Irrespective of their criminal histories, their tender age and resultant diminished decision making capacities incline the criminal justice system to leniency in sentencing, and enjoin us to work especially hard at the rehabilitation of these girls, and that has ever been the intention of the Prisons Department in its prison school facilities. I regret to inform that house than in so many ways, it is all too apparent that my department has failed in its discharge of that responsibility. As Minister, I hold myself accountable, and this house is entitled to hold me accountable for that failure. With this duty to rehabilitate first and foremost in mind, in consultation with the Honourable the Attorney-General, I report to the house that the sentences of the children imprisoned at Feurvel will be commuted and/or substantially reduced. This is necessary both for practical reasons of wanting somewhere appropriate to house inmates, and for the higher reason of Christian compassion.

Girls convicted of non-violent offences will have their sentences commuted either to parole or to house arrest, to be determined on a case-by-case basis by a parole board of the Minor Division of the Citizen's or Worthy's Court. The parole boards will be instructed to lean towards full parole in cases excepting those in which the prisoner concerned was thought to be a danger to herself or others, in which case she would serve the remainder of her sentence on house arrest.

Girls serving sentences for violent offences will either have their sentences commuted to house arrest either with their own family or with a Prisons Department supported foster family, or, in cases where such arrangements are not considered suitable by a parole board of the Minor Division of the Citizen's Court, or Worthy's Court, the remainder of the custodial sentence will be served at an alternative or temporary facility. The parole boards will again be guided to be as lenient as possible given the particular circumstances of the case.

I also wish to assure the house that neither the Prisons Department nor the Imperial Government as a whole has any fear of scrutiny on its handling of these issues. I have acknowledged that arrangements at His Majesty's Prison School for Girls at Feurvel both before, during and after the terror raids on the facility were unsatisfactory. The whole of the Imperial Government shares my dismay at that state of affairs. We intend to fix all problems and deficiencies, and in fact we welcome outside scrutiny of our efforts in so doing, in the hope that if there are still areas of weakness or issues that we would otherwise have overlooked, that scrutiny will bring it to light and allow us to correct it forthwith. To this end I announce to the house that I will be inviting a team of international observes from across the Western Atlantic and beyond, including from countries by no means sympathetic to our own, to supplement our own internal auditing within the Prisons Department.

My Lord Speaker, I wish to once again tender my apologies to the house, along with my most fervent hope and firm resolve that neither a raid like the one on Feurvel nor the conditions exposed in the aftermath of that raid shall ever again occur in a Pantocratorian prison, most especially in a Prison School or other juvenile facility. I wish to assure the House that I have begun a systematic review of the other Prison Schools for both boys and girls, and that we will find and root out every abuse and every security vulnerability, that we will reform and restructure each and every Prison School to ensure that they serve as safe and effective places for troubled youth to be rehabilitated and to learn.

HONOURABLE MEMBERS: Hear, hear!