It's Called "Nobility" [AMW Only]

[Marimaia]

Bistro Michaels
Margravia City
Duchy of Margravia, Kingdom of Marimaia

"...and in royal news, King Lysander visited the Margravia City barracks of the Royal Marimaian Marine Corps this morning. His Majesty was accompanied by Defence Minister Lord Randolph Margrave-Warmsley, as a ceremony was held to honour the RMMC's ongoing contributions to the integration process in the Duchy of Sabah. Sabah was brought under Marimaian administration in 1998 after military action was taken against the insurgent forces operating from the territory, and a royal spokesman has told MBC News that the Duchy of Sabah is expected to be fully integrated into the Kingdom of Marimaia within the next two years.

"Now with the weather, here's Sebastian Drake."

Situated in the shopping district of the Marimaian capital, Bistro Michaels was a thriving business which offered fairly priced refreshments and welcoming staff to its customers. Linda Michaels had been running her establishment for just over ten years and took pride in the fact that King Lysander had visited the bistro in February to award her with a congratulatory plaque which commemorated her tenth anniversary in the same location; the plaque took pride of place on the wall behind the counter so everyone saw it when they came to settle their bill. As it was lunchtime the place was busy as always, with a wide variety of customers sat around enjoying their food and chatting about various subjects. Two regular patrons were Giles and Felix, elderly gentlemen who were enjoying their retirement and always popped in for lunch. Sat at their usual table, Felix flicked his way through a copy of the Margravia Tribune while Giles drank loudly from a cup of soursop-infused tea.

"Have you read this?"

"Read what?"

"That Chrinthani Emperor's marrying a cowboy."

Giles looked at Felix with mild disbelief. "He's marrying a what? Bloody hell, what is the world coming to? You won't find any of our royals doing that, thank God. No bloody class in that nation, I tell you."

Felix nodded vigorously before taking a gulp from his own cup. "What do you expect though? Bunch of hippies, the lot of them. I mean yes, King Lysander might be a sword swallower but he's dignified and respectable with it. He's an old school royal, not like these newfangled 'trendy' royals in other countries. Attends every ceremony, always has a smile for his subjects. Remember when he came here? Shook our hands, ever so polite. He's what a king should be."

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Tomasine Palace
Margravia City
Duchy of Margravia, Kingdom of Marimaia

Across the city, Tomasine Palace was a veritable scene of serenity. The primary residence of the royal family was situated among immaculately landscaped gardens on the banks of the Newland River, with impressive twenty-five foot walls surrounding the site to maintain the privacy of the House of Margrave. Tomasine Palace itself admittedly appeared more like an oversized mansion than an actual palace but it more than fulfilled its purpose. A small army of dutiful servants saw to the needs of the residents, commanded by a genteel and obsequious individual named Hostewick who was the chief butler to the Margrave family. While the majority of the servants were either completing household chores or preparing the next meal, Hostewick was currently engaged in directly attending to his masters.

Due to the balmy 29°C afternoon weather, the palace's outdoor swimming pool was unsurprisingly in use. The King's sister, Princess Edlyn Margrave, was relaxing on a sunlounger clad in a sunhat, shades, and a white bikini with two handmaids nearby dressed in similar attire, ready to provide the princess with a cool drink or more sun lotion at a moment's notice. The 164ft. x 82ft. swimming pool was occupied by various friends of the princess as well as three particularly handsome men who seemed to show little interest in the young women splashing around while they swam, preferring instead to group together every so often to chat and poke fun at each other in the spirit of friendly competition. The bamboo teahouse at the side of the pool had all of its doors opened wide to allow for air circulation as King Lysander and Queen Mother Cleantha sat within at a table covered in a fine white laced cloth with a selection of small cakes arranged on a centrally placed cakestand, casually sipping iced tea while Hostewick stood in ever-readiness in a corner of the structure. The two most powerful individuals in the Kingdom of Marimaia could not have been dressed more differently; Cleantha wearing a starch-collared blouse and high-waisted skirt while Lysander wore a pair of swimming shorts under an open ankle-length silk robe, with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Mumsy...where's Baldwin?"

Cleantha made a slight 'hmm' at her eldest son's question. "Visiting a hospital in Davidston, my dear. Your younger brother's doing well with his public appearances these days, he's grown into a proper Margrave. Although no-one could be as proper a Margrave as you."

Lysander beamed with pride before continuing. "Have you given any thought to who he'll be marrying yet? I was thinking that he could do far worse than Winifred DeVere, the family's good and she's such a sweet thing. She'd make a good Queen Mother after some training."

"Well, if it weren't for the fact that she's a whore."

Lysander furrowed his brow as Cleantha continued. "I heard that she's been messing around with the Palmerston boy, oh what's his name-"

"Barnaby?"

"Yes, that's it. Apparently he got her pregnant, had an abortion, her mother was in pieces afterwards. Little slut. Barnaby's been exiled to one of his father's farms to learn about agriculture until it's decided that he's learned his lesson."

Lysander pulled a face and took another sip. "Well then, what about Margaret Ashworth? She seemed quite taken with him at the last ball."

Cleantha paused with her glass held halfway between the table and her mouth. "Now that is a splendid idea. The daughter of the Duke of Isabel Valley. She's good on the piano, excellent breeding, I do think you're on to something there. Now while we're discussing important matters, we need to consider whether we're sending anyone to the wedding of Emperor Nathaniel. The presence of a Margrave will give the occasion a touch of badly needed class."

Lysander made a dismissive sound. "Well, I'm not going. I have no desire to step foot in that country and be bombarded with how progressive they are. Besides, I don't trust any monarch who tries to be just like his people. Can't we just send cousin Montague? As ambassador he's already there after all. Send over a silver tea service as a wedding present and that's that."

"My dear, I don't think they drink much tea down there."

"Well they should."

"Yes they should, but they don't. We'll send a silver coffee service inscribed with the Thornton family crest with matching coffee spoons, they'll probably think it's for tea because it came from us but that's their problem. The important thing is that we're seen to be good neighbours after all, the English speakers of the world must stick together as we are the only true bastions of civilisation....some of us more than others."

As the pair exchanged self-satisfied smirks, the sound of someone clearing their throat drew their attention to the open doorway closest to the pool and a broad grin crept across Lysander's face as he took in the sight of the three men who had been making liberal use of his swimming facilities. Andrew Pinkerton, Marcus Winterbourne, and Warwick Leighton were all fashionable young men from 'good families' and had been granted noble titles by Lysander from his personal fiefdom of the Duchy of Margravia, the dukedom which encompassed the nation's capital and the surrounding region. Pinkerton had become Count of Westdon, Winterbourne had been appointed Count of Hartbury, and Leighton had become Count of Birchleigh; as a result of their titles the three had been made eligible to be appointed as Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and in that official role they had unrestricted access to the King at all times.

Some of the more traditional members of the House of Margrave had privately raised the issue with Queen Mother Cleantha due to what they deemed as potential 'scandal' stemming from Lysander's proclivities, only to be rebuked when she reminded them that Gentlemen of the Bedchamber are supposed to provide their monarch with 'companionship', a term which had never actually had anything specific attached to it so the exact nature of the companionship that the three were providing was nobody's concern except Lysander's. In response to this, the traditionalists of the family began referring to the trio as the 'Myrmidons', an old English term meaning 'followers or subordinates of a powerful person, typically one who is unscrupulous or carries out orders unquestioningly'. Much to their annoyance, Lysander's three favourites had co-opted the nickname for themselves.

With the King's attention firmly fixed upon them, Marcus and Warwick bowed in a less-than-serious fashion while Andrew stepped forward with a playful smile. The unofficial leader of the trio, Andrew Pinkerton had completed a full eight year tour of service with the RMMC in Sabah and caught Lysander's eye during a medal awarding ceremony. After some 'special royal dispensation' Andrew had left the Marines on excellent terms as he had essentially been recruited into the Royal Household, and his fellow Myrmidons followed his lead because of the high regard that all Marimaians held for current and former members of the RMMC. He ran his hand over his short-cut dark hair and crouched down next to Lysander's chair, casually taking the King's hand and gently kissing the back of it.

"Your Majesty, your loyal and dutiful servants have been discussing your welfare and we agree that continued exposure to these temperatures could result in heatstroke. For the good of the nation, we implore you to come inside with us where the environment will be far more comfortable."

Lysander chuckled slightly as Andrew finished speaking with a wink. "Well, Count Westdon. I wouldn't be much of a king if I ignored a direct appeal from such a distinguished individual." He turned to Cleantha with an obvious twinkle in his eye. "If you'll excuse me Mumsy, I have devoted subjects who need me."

The Queen Mother raised her eyebrows suggestively and nodded. "Of course, my dear. This nation is truly blessed to have such an attentive King."

After smirking to herself as Lysander headed indoors with his favourites in tow, Cleantha went to take another sip of her drink and realised that her glass was empty. "Dear devoted Hostewick. I appear to have run dry."

[Iansisle]

Barony of Gurdesteppe
Southern Weshield

The blast on a whistle was so brief and abbreviated that the players for a moment were unsure of whether or not a penalty had been called. The infringement of the line of the ball was flagrant, but the perpetrator was the High King of the Shield, whose infractions even the bravest umpires often overlooked. Then they saw that the whistle was likely less for the play and more for the small figure sprinting up the pitch, his tiny arms pumping, while his nanny sprinted behind.

James reined up short of his son and slipped out of the saddle, letting his mallet fall to the pitch. One of the other players had come up alongside and caught his pony by the bridle, for the king's arms were already full of the heir to the throne.

“Father, father,” sobbed the Prince. “Ms. Edgeham says I can't go feed the Eland.”

“Is that so?” said James. He looked up at Ms. Edgeham, whose face was puffy and red from her sprint across the pitch.

“I'm so – sorry, your majesty,” she said. “He's been growing so fast – and I'm getting a bit out of shape.”

“No harm done. Why can't he feed the eland?”

“I do want to, father!”

“It's his nap time, your majesty. I told him we could go feed them after the nap.”

“But I'm not tired, father, I'm not!”

“He does seem to have a bit of energy,” said James. “Here, J-2, I'll tell you what: how about Weathers gives you a ride to the pavilion on Pinder here, and then you take a nap?”

“But father!”

“And, so long as you're good and polite and listen to everything Ms. Edgeham tells you, we can go feed the eland together afterwards. How does that sound?”

“...yes, Father.”

“There's a good boy!” James ruffled his son's hair, then handed him up to his bodyguard.

Jameston Palace
Ianapalis, Modern Day

The red-and-white bunting of the Republic was hanging everywhere from the white marble surrounding Gull Flag Square. That marble had been stained a dark brown, some had assumed permanently, by the smoke of the steel factories during the days of the empire. But the Republic needed the contrast for its ceremonies and, during the lull over the week, work crews scrubbed every inch of the square. The cleanliness of the buildings set off the debris that had been left as an art installation: the remains of the great pedestals upon which had sat the busts of the High Kings who remained wealthy enough to memorialize themselves. The Kings who had reigned long before James II, or indeed his grandfather, had been born.

Now the crowds were out. They were always largest on Sundays, right after the morning mass. Men leaned up against the toppled pillars and chewed tobacco, talking over the latest scores in the hockey championships. Sweethearts bought each other cotton candy and other treats from the vendors around the square. They were watched intently by the older women, who had abandoned the men and their sports talk for the gossip of the capitals' neighborhoods. The children ran and ducked through the rubble, building fortresses with chunks on the Old Regime's marble and reenacted the battles of the Revolution with nuts and fruit.

The Revolution had brought together the people of the Shield in a way no High King had since a century before the Great War. From both sides of MapDunn, hearty peasant laborers and the middle-class bourgeoisie came together and realized that, for all their differences, they shared one thing in common: their loathing of the aristocratic class that had held them back. As new industries sprung up from the ashes of the revolution, they knew that it was the indolence and the waste of their so-called betters who had squandered the riches of the Shield; it was they who had turned the Empire from the strongest state into Europe into the laughing stock of the world. And now, they resolved on the pavement and grass and broken marble of Gull Flag Square, the world would laugh no more.

On the center stage, Sam Longdale, the Director of Justice, was reading from the preamble to the Republic's Constitution.

“...that all Shieldians are Citizens of the Republic and, as such, shall share equally in its Rights, its Responsibilities, and its Glory.”

The crowd raised a familiar cheer for the familiar words. They listened with equal rapture as the list of crimes was read out. A few became disappointed halfway through when they realized that it was not yet time for the High King.

“...And that man's name is Theodore Rawlston, though he had styled himself the 'Duke of Evanpass.'”

“Theodore?” said James, who was watching through the bars of his window overlooking Gull Flag Square. “That's prick's name was Theodore? How did I never know that?”

“Hush,” said Lady Balliat.

“...Then may God have mercy on your soul,” came Longdale's voice, carried over dozens of speakers that had been set up behind the bunting around the Square. A lever was pulled, the floor dropped out, and Lord Evanpass fell a few feet to a stop. James fancied that he could hear the crack through his closed window at the far end.

La Jolla
North of San Diego, California

“...Then may God have mercy on your soul.” Longdale's voice sounded tinny and unimpressive over the integral speakers of the Californian smartphone. The remaining members of the Shieldian royal family, save for the Boy-King, who remained in care at Rady's Children's Hospital, huddled around the device. They had been unable to figure out how to cast the video onto the large plasma TV that sat a few feet away from them in this, the last palace of the House of Callahan.

Christine, the Queen Mother, turned away from the screen as Evanpass' body dropped. The crowd cheered. She put her hands on the granite countertop and tried to keep from vomiting.

“They say that he never talked,” said Jessica, James' older sister. “The COEmen had him for months at one of their black sites. I heard that they mutilated him so badly they had to give him surgery to be ready for his execution. But Evanpass never talked.”

“He was such an idiot,” said Alice, James' younger sister. “What on Earth would he have been able to tell them?”

“He just died for us,” said Jessica. “A little respect is needed.” She walked over and put her hand on Christine's back. “Can I have Weathers get something for you?”

Christine did not trust herself to talk just then, so she shook her head. She vowed to remember Evanpass as he had been in Ianapalis – the funny Evanpass, the irreverent one, the charmer. She didn't want to remember the one whose car tire had blown out during their desperate flight from Tharia, one step ahead of the Gulls. She didn't want to remember his face by the headlights, fading into darkness.

“We're going to have to move on again,” said Jessica. “I don't think we'll be safe here much longer.”

“You're not thinking that the COE's reach extends to California, are you?” said Alice, snorting. “They wouldn't dare try anything here. Can you imagine one looking for us? 'Chkello, Citizen Esse, how make you? Is lookings for ze number one king boy, chkomprende?'”

“Alice – ” started Jessica.

“Oh, lord, can you imagine Madders in one of those floral shirts, his nose slathered in sunscreen? Or Bradsworth trying to put a snap bracelet on his stub arm?”

“Shut up!” Christine surprised herself with her fury. She grabbed the smart phone, which was still broadcasting executions from Gull Flag Square, and threw it across the room. It hit the stone fireplace and shattered. Christine turned down the hallway behind the refrigerator and fled the kitchen.

“Drama,” said Alice, frowning after her phone. “I had a lot of pictures on that thing.”

“She was very close to Lord Evanpass,” said Jessica, taking a seat at the breakfast bar.

“Sure. She cheated on our brother a couple times with a charmer. Don't expect me to shed any tears over him.”

“We have to move on,” said Jessica again. “My contacts on Presidio Hill tell me that the Shieldian government is demanding the return of all state property. The Socialistas will probably be coming back to power in the elections. A week – maybe two – after they do, this place will be property of the Gull Flag Republic.”

“But the Californians won't turn us over,” said Alice. “And they won't pull the plug on J-2. So how does this affect us?”

“Do you have any idea how much money this place is worth?” asked Jessica, gesturing out the broad bank of windows at the cliffs and the Pacific. A group of gulls, appropriately enough, were soaring on the breezes just offshore. “Millions and millions. How much do you have, Alice? Enough even to replace that infernal little toy of yours? Do you have any marketable skills? And income whatsoever?”

“This is California,” said Alice. “They'll take care of us.”

“We'd have to become citizens,” Jessica reminded her. “We'd have to be refugees – not a government-in-exile. And they'd probably ship us out east and set us up in a government apartment in Tucson or something even worse. They'd probably expect us to get jobs.”

“Ugh, fine, fine,” said Alice. “But where do we go from here?”

[Chrinthanium]

Quarterling Palace
Darionopolis, Chrinthania

He sat in the White Drawing Room of Quarterling Palace sipping a cup of coffee. The room was aptly named. Apart from some accent colors, most everything was white. It was a room of particular importance as it was the room where the Prime Minister had their weekly discussions with the monarch. Important men and women stood in this room recounting the boring details of governmental work to a Constitutional monarch who had no real power to do much outside of offer his opinions on the matter for the government to consider. Now, Simon Potter was in that very room.

The door opened and Wilcox stepped in, "His Imperial Majesty."

Simon stood up and turned towards the door. Nathaniel walked into the room and nodded to Simon's bow.

"Your Majesty," Simon said as he took Nathaniel's hand and kissed it.

Nathaniel sat down in a chair opposite of where Simon had been sitting.

"Mr. Potter," Nathaniel said. "It is Our pleasure to appoint you Our ambassador to Marimaia at the request of Our government."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Simon said as he sat down. Marimaia was not a choice assignment for an up-and-coming diplomat in Chrinthania. Those assignments were California, America, and Walmington. Of course, those assignments went to more tempered and refined diplomats after years of being dispatched around the world in various other nations. The fast track to such an appointment was Soviet India. To work there in the diplomatic service and to do it well could see a diplomat make quite the advancement. Marimaia, on the other hand, though considered a better posting was, for all intents and purposes, a punishment. It is believed that is where diplomat who need to learn the ropes better are sent.

"You are scheduled to depart tomorrow morning, is that correct," Nathaniel said as he took a cup of coffee.

"Yes, Sir," Simon said.

"Very good. Then, you'll need this," Nathaniel nodded at Wilcox who was holding a folder in his hand. Wilcox walked over to Simon and presented it to him. Simon opened the folder and his credentials with the Imperial seal affixed were inside addressed to His Royal Majesty, King Lysander. "You will be presenting them to him shortly after your arrival in Marimaia. You're appointment is as long as it pleases Us. Do well and We would look kindly on your service in the future."

Simon smiled as he took a sip of coffee, "Yes, Sir."

"We understand this could be a difficult assignment, but We feel you are the right man for the job, Mr. Potter."

Simon finished his cup of coffee and stood. Nathaniel stood up and extended his hand. Simon shook his hand and bowed. He stepped backwards three paces, then turned and exited the room. Wilcox close the door behind him.

"God help him," Nathaniel said.

[Iansisle]

California

For as crowded as the house seemed, there were never enough people around for the tasks that needed doing. Jessica had to wait until Weathers came off duty as the Boy-King's guard for him to drive her downtown. And she couldn't even complain after the fight she'd had with her sister and her sister-in-law. She had mentioned her impatience to Alice and received a sarcastic reminder that the nearest CalRail stop was only a few blocks away. And Christine had locked herself away in one of the bedrooms after Evanpass' execution -- the foolish girl! As if there was time or space for grieving now, at the most dire moment faced by any Shieldian monarch since Damana the Great looked down from the walls of Editraequan at the assembled Depkazi hordes.

Weathers started the automobile, a compact American sedan. Jessica shuffled around the tiny back seat and attempted to make herself comfortable. She looked at the house. From this angel, it looked like a concrete bunker. It had to -- the house sat right along a road and the architect who had designed it as a winter home for the High King Alexander had been told to worry about security. The front end was glass and steel looking out over the cliffs; it had just been redone by James for his family a few years before the Revolution. Grasping Charles Bradsworth had been after this house since the revolution. He already had the Shieldian embassy down in Mission Valley, as the weak Californian government, wracked by scandal and economic doubt, had been eager to embrace the new Republic.

Jessica had argued that this house was the personal property of the Callahan family and absolutely outside the robbery of assets that Bradsworth had perpetrated. She still had the letter from some scummy Gull lawyer dryly noting that the Callahan family wealth had been taxed from the population of the Shield, and therefore everything they owned still rightly belonged to -- she got angry just thinking about it. The Greens were in no position to act, but when the Californians went to the election, all indications were that the Socialists would take power. And the Socialists were all in favor of better relations with the Gulls -- traitors and infidels, all of them.

"Could I trouble your Highness to buckle your seatbelt?" asked Weathers. Jessica looked up to see his eyes in the rearview mirror.

She scowled at him. "Are you planning to crash?" she started.

"I beg your pardon, your Highness," said Weathers. "It's just that the fine in California for driving without -- "

"Yes, of course." Jessica snapped her belt in. They couldn't afford to risk a traffic ticket; such was the depth of humiliation of the House of Callahan.

And she couldn't afford to quarrel with Weathers. After the embassy staff had treacherously fled, like rats off a sinking ship, she had precious few people she could trust. Weathers had his last command straight from James, right before his abdication. 'Take care of my boy, no matter what.' Two others of the King's Own; all that was left of the elite bodyguard unit. Bumbling old Lord Thesian, who had lost the last of the imperial army against the Javians in the Rose War and his wife to the cholera in Weshield. Her blubbering sister-in-law and her impertinent, shiftless sister - both useless. She almost wished that Lord Evanpass had been able to make it out with them; he might have been a carouser and a bounder, but at least he was competent. Without him, she had to serve as regent and her own prime minister. The only bulwark between her family and the darkness.

"I don't wish to alarm your Highness," said Weathers, his eyes once again on the rearview mirror. "And please don't look, but I believe we're being followed."

"What?" Jessica sat bolt upright.

"Please don't look," said Weathers again, his voice more the crack commando now than the humble servant. "Act as if everything is normal. They might send someone less sloppy if they think we're on to them."

"Do -- do you think it's the Gulls?"

"Yes, your highness. I can't imagine who else in California would be driving a Westerton." Weathers pushed the accelerator down as he merged onto a freeway. Jessica was struck for a moment, as she ever was, by the immense wealth of this country. There had to be more cars around her right now than there were on all the Shield. "But I don't think they mean us any specific harm."

"They'd be fools to try anything," said Jessica, wondering even as she spoke at how desperate things must be to discuss politics with a peasant. "The Gulls need California just as much as they need the Gulls."

"Just as you say, your Highness. Would you like me to try to conceal our destination?"

"And have them tell their masters that we shrank from even the shadow of a Gull?" Jessica drew up her courage. "Never. Lead them right to the embassy. I will not be intimidated by a group of thugs, no matter what."

"Yes, your Highness." Weathers patted a small protrusion under his jacket. They wouldn't let him keep his service weapons when he had arrived in California, so acquiring a black market gun had been his first priority. The crude Gulf design he had bought out in El Centro lacked the precision and elegance of his old P35. He'd banged through three magazines -- representing a not insignificant portion of his remaining funds -- out in the desert to get the feel of the weapon, but at least he could be sure that he'd be able to put down any threat to his charges. Keeping a close eye on the dusty gray Westerton behind them, he pulled their sedan over in front of the Marimaian embassy.

I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid. Jessica repeated to herself. She wouldn't not turn her head to look -- the distinctive low growl of the Westerton passed behind her. She kept her eyes on the footman at the gate and held out her calling card.

"Pray go tell your master that this in an official state visit from the Princess-Regent of the Grand Empire of the Shield."

[Marimaia]

Tomasine Palace
Margravia City
Duchy of Margravia, Kingdom of Marimaia

Cleantha ascended the stylish red carpeted staircase with a rather prim stride as she made her way towards the King's private apartments. She had been strolling in the Palace Gardens when she had been approached by Duke Piers Margrave, the kingdom's Foreign Minister and one of Lysander's uncles; he had calmly asked if the King had remembered that they were going to be receiving a new ambassador from the Empire of Chrinthania the next day, at which point Cleantha had volunteered to remind him. In all honesty she knew that Lysander would have forgotten about such a detail but she justified it to herself as 'her dear darling son carrying the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders'. In any other nation Lysander probably would have been whipped into shape by his advisors but Cleantha's presence meant that no-one would dare attempt to correct the King's behaviour, as the Queen Mother cast a particularly long shadow when it came to affairs of state. Matters were not helped by the fact that Lysander had made it abundantly clear to the Royal Council that Cleantha spoke with his authority if he was unable to attend council meetings. After reaching the landing and easily navigating the corridors of Tomasine Palace's second floor, she arrived at the double doors of her son's private quarters and inhaled slowly before knocking.

"Not now!"

The utterance from within caused Cleantha to raise an eyebrow and flare her nostrils as it had not been her son's voice. She knocked slightly more loudly and leaned closer to sternly address the occupants through the door.

"This is the Queen Mother. I am here to speak to my-"

She smiled to herself as the door opened and Warwick Leighton bowed his head apologetically towards her. It spoke volumes about daily life at Tomasine Palace that she did not even bat an eyelid at the fact that the handsome blond was only wearing a pair of black boxer shorts which appeared to have been hastily pulled on.

"Apologies, Queen Mother. I meant no disrespect."

Cleantha sighed and regarded him as a mother would a naughty child. "Count Birchleigh. Could you ask the King to grant me an audience please?"

"Of course." Warwick crossed the opulent lounge area and knocked on the royal bedroom door three times, a pre-arranged signal which told those within that someone important had arrived to see the King. He then entered the bedroom and after a few moments of hushed talking, he re-emerged and busied himself picking clothes off the lounge floor as Lysander then emerged from the bedroom with his hair completely messed up, hastily tying the waistcord on the ankle-length silk robe he had been wearing earlier. He paused for a moment as he realised that he was not wearing his glasses and turned to retrieve them, smiling appreciatively as Andrew Pinkerton partially appeared round the door and handed them to him. After slipping them on, Lysander cleared his throat and beamed at his mother who returned the smile.

"Mumsy! What is it? Has something happened?"

Cleantha waved her hand dismissively. "No, no, nothing like that my dear. Your uncle Piers wanted to make sure that you remembered about the new ambassador from Chrinthania who is arriving tomorrow. You know the one I mean?"

"Oh...oh! Yes, of course, the new Chrinthani ambassador. Yes, I remember Uncle Piers mentioning it. I'll receive him in the throne room, Uncle Piers will be in attendance for definite and of course yourself, Mumsy. What about-"

Cleantha already knew what her son was about to suggest. "One of them, my dear." Lysander responded by pouting and looking at the floor, causing the Queen Mother to relent. "Of course you are the King, so if you want all three to be present then that is your prerogative. I'll inform Piers of the attendees, don't forget that dinner is at seven."

After exchanging a hug with Lysander, Cleantha regarded Warwick's evident awkwardness at her continued presence with an amused expression and casually strode out. As Warwick closed the doors behind her and let out a sigh of relief, Marcus Winterbourne peered round the bedroom door.

"Is she gone?"

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Marimaian Embassy
California

As per standard Marimaian embassy practise, the footman on the gate was clad in an immaculate red and white uniform so that passers-by and visitors alike would have no doubt about the style and grace exuded by the Kingdom of Marimaia. Upon being addressed by Princess-Regent Jessica, he marched the short distance to the sedan and politely accepted her calling card, quickly inspecting it before bowing respectfully.

"It is an honour that you grace us with your presence, Your Highness. One moment while I open the gate for your vehicle, I shall inform the ambassador that you have arrived."

Marching back to his usual position at the gate, the footman buzzed the intercom and spoke clearly. "This is Mackenzie at the front gate. Princess-Regent Jessica of the Grand Empire of the Shield has arrived on an official state visit to meet with the ambassador." He paused briefly as the security office replied, then marched back to the sedan as the gates began to open inwards.

"Ambassador Jasper Winfield shall be honoured to meet with you, Your Highness. Please pull up at the front entrance of the building, an embassy official shall greet you there and escort you to the Reception Room."

[Iansisle]

Marimaian Embassy
California

Some might have shied away from the presumption of arriving at another nation's embassy and declaring it an official state visit, of inviting oneself over. But the Callahans were not the sort who balked at things like the feelings of others. Three hundred years ago, Europe had trembled to the might of the Royal Shadoran Artillery and the wealth of the High King; his successors cared little how much time had passed or how far the Empire had fallen.

Jessica waited for Weathers to open her door and then allowed the Grenadier to help her up from the small American sedan. He made to follow her into the embassy, but she told him to wait with the car. She was less sure of how to treat the embassy official who met her at the front door; the traditional Shieldian attitude was to dismiss any servant or non-noble, but some time living in California had taught her that might be considered rude, and she did not wish to needlessly antagonize what might be her family's last chance at dignity. She settled instead on a certain detachment, answering any questions as succinctly as possible and volunteering no questions of her own.

[Marimaia]

Marimaian Embassy
California

Some might have shied away from the presumption of arriving at another nation's embassy and declaring it an official state visit, of inviting oneself over. But the Callahans were not the sort who balked at things like the feelings of others. Three hundred years ago, Europe had trembled to the might of the Royal Shadoran Artillery and the wealth of the High King; his successors cared little how much time had passed or how far the Empire had fallen.

Jessica waited for Weathers to open her door and then allowed the Grenadier to help her up from the small American sedan. He made to follow her into the embassy, but she told him to wait with the car. She was less sure of how to treat the embassy official who met her at the front door; the traditional Shieldian attitude was to dismiss any servant or non-noble, but some time living in California had taught her that might be considered rude, and she did not wish to needlessly antagonize what might be her family's last chance at dignity. She settled instead on a certain detachment, answering any questions as succinctly as possible and volunteering no questions of her own.

As the Deputy Chief of Mission at the Marimaian embassy in California, Michael Darby had dealt with a wide variety of Californians during his time but he had never expected to encounter a member of the exiled Shieldian royal family. Their presence in the nation was fairly well-known in the right circles but Marimaian policy towards the Callahans had been to keep a respectful distance; their homeland had turned against them and it was believed that they would prefer to be left alone to adjust to their situation. Given what the House of Margrave knew of the House of Callahan, the Princess-Regent's unannounced arrival at the embassy would raise any number of inquisitive eyebrows back in Margravia City. As Ambassador Jasper Winfield was a cousin once-removed of King Lysander he had a great deal of experience with royal interactions, and he had passed on many of his observations to his embassy staff, something which would hopefully put Darby in good stead as he dealt with the Princess-Regent's presence.

Dressed in a smart high collared white shirt with black trousers as well as a matching black waistcoat and cravat, Darby bowed respectfully to Princess-Regent Jessica as he greeted her at the front entrance.

"Your Highness, we are most honoured by your visit to our humble embassy. As Deputy Chief of Mission, I shall escort you to the Reception Lounge where you can have a private audience with Ambassador Winfield before proceeding with any further aspect of your visit."

He straightened up and stood aside to allow Jessica entry to the embassy, giving a polite gesture with his hand to indicate the way forward. "This way please, Your Highness. The Lounge is only a short distance down this hallway."

[Chrinthanium]

Chrinthani Embassy
Margravia City, Marimaia

The building was not the more ornate or regal of the lot. In fact, it was rather plain as befitting the Chrinthani diplomatic mission to Marimaia. The government invested its resources in the strong allies of Chrinthania and not so much that of its more neutral partners. Perhaps it was an attempt by the Chrinthani not to draw attention to themselves or, as was most likely the case, it the Chrinthani government's passive-aggressive way of informing the Marimaians exactly how they felt by not making it a showier place. Regardless of the reasoning behind the nearly-spartan-looking building, the interior was much more comforting and worthy of a diplomat.

While the staff busied themselves with the normal chores associated with the arrival of a new diplomat, Simon himself sat down on a white settee and poured himself a strong scotch which nestled among the ice cubes. He flipped open a folder with a list of items that were left behind by the former ambassador for him to review. Mostly boring business referring to trade deals and other economic agreements to keep the lines of communication open. The number one item on any diplomatic agenda for the Chrinthani was the continuing threat of Soviet India to the region. While some nations might like to watch the world burn, the Chrinthani were not one of those. In spite of personal opinions against the Marimaians, the Chrinthani knew that they were a key ally in reining in the Soviet Threat. Of course, no one expected much military help, but it was nice to know that there could be discussion on the topic. In spite of their history, there was one thing the Chrinthani knew about the Marimo's: Lysander loved being on that throne in spite of reports that he hated actually doing his job. Furthermore, it was widely known that keeping the Queen Mother in your good graces could get you far in Marimaia.

As he pondered those thoughts, he took another sip and chuckled to himself slightly. In spite of the vast differences between Marimaian and Chrinthani cultures, there was one thing which was common to both: overbearing mothers. Andrea and her judgmental attitude and insistence on having her voice be heard and Cleantha and her power-behind-the-throne stance on everything.

"Five minutes, Sir," the driver said.

"Thanks, mate," Simon said as he knocked back his drink. If he was going to meet Lysander, then he was gonna have a stiff drink. Lord knows he was going to need it.

[Iansisle]

The bow was good, Jessica noted, thinking that perhaps she had finally found a country where the lower classes knew their standing. It was customary in California to treat everyone as equals, from the richest tech billionaire to the most recently arrived economic migrant, a culture clash which grated on the nerves of both host and guest. Receiving deference -- true deference, not the smile and bubbly greeting of a California service worker -- made her feel almost at home again, which simply reinforced the urgency of her mission.

After all, it pained her simply to be here. Most like the Margraves knew more about the Callahans than was the reverse. Before the Revolution, the Margraves had been viewed with a certain disdain by the Shieldian court, as common folk self-elevated in a far-distant colonial backwater. So far as Jessica knew, the Margraves were not even related to the Godfreys, and the Walmies were scarcely true royals themselves. After all, creative geneology -- the type that made a few 'assumptions' through the Depkazi yoke and took a few historical figures at their word without evidence -- saw the Callahans related back through Ian the Great, Robert Rupenn, and Damana of Mansbar-Oeseld all the way to St. Adie.

There was another problem, Jessica thought, her mind alighting on religion. None of the remaining members of her family were especially religious, but Protestants. Even if they were more similar to the Godfreyite than those heretical snake-handling Movers from her own country, still the thought made her slightly uncomfortable. It also reminder her that the Margraves may well wish to keep her at a distance.

As she walked down the hall, silent in her thoughts, Jessica made sure to note the decorations and attempted to discern something of the style and preferences of the ambassador. She was vaguely aware that he had some connection to the Margraves and wanted to make sure to be able to fawn appropriately over him, should such become necessary.

[Marimaia]

Marimaian Embassy
California

Upon reaching the door to the Reception Lounge, Michael Darby knocked once and waited three seconds before proceeding to open the door and address the ambassador within.

"Your Excellency, may I present Her Highness Jessica of the House of Callahan, Princess-Regent of the Grand Empire of the Shield."

Darby then stood to one side and bowed slightly as he gestured for Jessica to enter. "Your Highness, may I present His Excellency Ambassador Jasper Winfield of the Kingdom of Marimaia."

The Reception Lounge was not a particularly large room, perhaps able to comfortably accommodate ten people at the most, but the decor made up for the relative lack of size. The walls were decorated in cream and gold wallpaper which bore a flowery motif, and the colour scheme carried on throughout the room; the ornate fireplace had been constructed from creamy-coloured stone and was outlined in golden trim, while the coffee table and chests of drawers were made of white oak. Ambassador Winfield stepped forward, dressed in a smart black suit and with neatly-styled short hair, creating a sharp contrast between himself and the room which he occupied. After bowing slightly towards Jessica, he stood upright and gave a warm smile towards the Princess-Regent.

"Your Highness, this is a most unexpected honour for us. As I am sure you can imagine, we do not receive many guests of your grace and standing here. Please take a seat if you wish." He gestured to one of the plush cream-coloured armchairs nearby before continuing.

"We have tea and coffee already here if you would care for some refreshment..." he stated while gesturing to the silver tea and coffee services which had been neatly placed on the coffee table, "...although if neither beverage is to your preference then we shall provide something more suited to your taste."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tomasine Palace
Margravia City
Duchy of Margravia, Kingdom of Marimaia

With the new Chrinthani ambassador's arrival at the primary royal residence imminent, Marcus Winterbourne and Warwick Leighton pushed open the doors to the Margrave throne room and held them while Lysander and Cleantha casually strolled in, with Andrew Pinkerton close behind the King. Dressed in a smart black Nehru-style suit with white gloves, Lysander walked arm-in-arm with his mother who wore her usual fashion of a starch-collared white blouse and a black high-waisted skirt, this time with a black frock coat jacket. The three Myrmidons wore matching black suits in a more regular style than that of Lysander's attire, and one could be forgiven for thinking that they were attending a funeral if it were not for their surroundings. The throne room's decor was primarily red, white and gold in colour much like the national flag; the upper three quarters of the walls were large panels of red divided by intricate golden trim, with white and gold panelling running along the lower quarter, while the doors were primarily white with golden-trimmed panelling. Three golden chandeliers dangled gracefully from the ceiling at precisely identical intervals between the main doors and the throne, which was armchair-sized and upholstered in red with a golden-coloured frame and a matching footstool; hanging behind the throne was a large red drape with gold and white detail, prominently displaying the Margrave family coat of arms which also featured on the national flag.

As Lysander sat down on the throne and made himself comfortable, Cleantha took up position standing at his right hand while the Myrmidons took up position at his left. While they were taking their places, the other attendees filed in to join them. Duke Piers Margrave, one of Lysander's uncles and the kingdom's Foreign Minister, strode in accompanied by Duke Crispin Margrave, another of the King's uncles and Interior Minister. Both were dressed in suits which were more of a dark grey, and they both bowed to Lysander before taking their place on the right side of the throne room, a slight distance down from Cleantha. Two of the most powerful individuals in the kingdom after Lysander (and Cleantha), Crispin and Piers regarded the administration of Marimaia as an extremely serious business and were undoubtedly the most level-headed and sensible people currently in the throne room. While they had their reservations about Lysander's favourites and the King's tendency to frivolity, they privately possessed greater reservations about Cleantha's role in state affairs. As far as they were concerned, their sister-in-law had far too much influence but there was little they could do about it because she wielded that influence with the support of the King.

They now awaited the arrival of the new Chrinthani ambassador, who was walking into an appointment which he would undoubtedly remember for the rest of his life.

[Chrinthanium]

Tomasine Palace
Margravia City

Simon Potter adjusted his tie in the mirror of the car ensuring the Windsor knot was perfect. He slid his hand down that tie and the white hand-made silk shirt from which is hung until it disappeared into the charcoal gray suit coat. Once assured that he was in perfect order, he entered the palace and followed the directions that led him to the Marimaian throne room. He was captivated by its opulence. It was a thing known by the Chrinthani that Lysander was besotted by the grand and the beautiful. There would be nothing unexpected to the eyes of an ambassador granted an appointment to King Lysander except that which was considered simple and common, which nothing in this palace could be considered. Previous ambassadors from Chrinthania had left an appropriately-detailed dossier on the palace and what to expect inside its gates--the favorites were definitely in that dossier.

Upon entering, he made a deep bow--a reverence as it was called in some circles. Then, halfway across the room, he made yet another reverence. Finally, upon entering the Royal presence, he gave a third and final reverence. If the Marimaians were going to think themselves culturally superior to the Chrinthani, then the Chrinthani were going to show them that the ways of chivalry, grace, and grandeur were not unknown to the Chrinthani. No, such things were known in Chrinthania. They were simply ignored as being part of a bygone era. However, in this room, the Chrinthani would pull no punches when it came to such antiquated notions.

"The Empire of Chrinthania, by appointment of His Imperial Majesty, Nathaniel IV, as proposed by His government has appointed me as Ambassador to His Majesty and your distinguished nation. I humbly submit to you my credentials," Simon stated as he handed one of the attendants the official document. "It is my esteemed hope that we can continue our fruitful and close relations with your Gracious Majesty and the People of the Kingdom of Marimaia."

[Marimaia]

Tomasine Palace
Margravia City

Simon Potter adjusted his tie in the mirror of the car ensuring the Windsor knot was perfect. He slid his hand down that tie and the white hand-made silk shirt from which is hung until it disappeared into the charcoal gray suit coat. Once assured that he was in perfect order, he entered the palace and followed the directions that led him to the Marimaian throne room. He was captivated by its opulence. It was a thing known by the Chrinthani that Lysander was besotted by the grand and the beautiful. There would be nothing unexpected to the eyes of an ambassador granted an appointment to King Lysander except that which was considered simple and common, which nothing in this palace could be considered. Previous ambassadors from Chrinthania had left an appropriately-detailed dossier on the palace and what to expect inside its gates--the favorites were definitely in that dossier.

Upon entering, he made a deep bow--a reverence as it was called in some circles. Then, halfway across the room, he made yet another reverence. Finally, upon entering the Royal presence, he gave a third and final reverence. If the Marimaians were going to think themselves culturally superior to the Chrinthani, then the Chrinthani were going to show them that the ways of chivalry, grace, and grandeur were not unknown to the Chrinthani. No, such things were known in Chrinthania. They were simply ignored as being part of a bygone era. However, in this room, the Chrinthani would pull no punches when it came to such antiquated notions.

"The Empire of Chrinthania, by appointment of His Imperial Majesty, Nathaniel IV, as proposed by His government has appointed me as Ambassador to His Majesty and your distinguished nation. I humbly submit to you my credentials," Simon stated as he handed one of the attendants the official document. "It is my esteemed hope that we can continue our fruitful and close relations with your Gracious Majesty and the People of the Kingdom of Marimaia."

Lysander observed Ambassador Potter with increasing curiosity as he performed not one but three reverences, exchanging a quick glance with Cleantha before the Chrinthani addressed him. The King then switched from sitting upright with his arms on the armrests of the throne to a more relaxed position, sitting back with his legs crossed and a somewhat bemused expression on his face.

"The Kingdom of Marimaia also wishes for fruitful and close relations to continue with the Empire of Chrinthania, Mister Ambassador. We Marimaians are truly blessed in that we still have an existing 'mother country' and 'father country', and we always endeavour to maintain the very best of relations with both of our parents. Chrinthania is the proud mother of Marimaia as Emperor Alexander III established the colony of Alexandis, the womb which received the strong Margrave seed from our father, the Federacy of the United Gulf States. I dare say that our three nations are the superior branch of the extended Walmingtonian family, wouldn't you agree?"

Upon being handed the ambassador's credentials, Lysander looked through the document in a rather blasé fashion before turning his attention back to Potter.

"This all seems to be in order. Uncle Piers, would you care to have a look?" He held the document out with his right hand while fixing Ambassador Potter with a Cheshire Cat grin; Duke Piers Margrave stepped up and bowed once before taking the document to have a more thorough look at it than the King apparently wished to. With his hands free, Lysander now tented his fingers and addressed the ambassador once more, letting out a slight sigh as he did so.

"So Mister Ambassador, I understand that His Imperial Majesty had to ask permission from his Parliament before he could get married? What sort of upstarts would actively try to stop their monarch from doing such a thing?"

[Chrinthanium]

"Chrinthania is the proud mother of Marimaia as Emperor Alexander III established the colony of Alexandis, the womb which received the strong Margrave seed from our father, the Federacy of the United Gulf States. I dare say that our three nations are the superior branch of the extended Walmingtonian family, wouldn't you agree?", Lysander said.

Perhaps the narrative in Marimaia was different than that in Chrinthania. Perhaps they were completely unwilling to read the long list of offenses which prompted the downfall of the House of Ainsley and the rise of the House of Thornton. Nations were wont to revise their histories to clean up most of the dirty bits they were either too embarrassed or simply unwilling to admit having ever done such deeds. Perhaps Simon should give a lecture to Lysander about the grave misuses of power that Alexander III committed, including a colony which has, for lack of a better term in the Chrinthani mind, been a giant red stain on their otherwise not-so-horrible reputation. Alexander III was a period of time the Chrinthani would rather forget than ever have brought up again. If it hadn't been for a young general, Chrinthania may well have become a republic instead of a Constitutional monarchy. Simon smiled, though, through the entire statement.

"We have all forged our very own unique identities over time through our similar beginnings but very different histories," Simon stated.

"So Mister Ambassador, I understand that His Imperial Majesty had to ask permission from his Parliament before he could get married? What sort of upstarts would actively try to stop their monarch from doing such a thing?" Lysander asked.

"Your Majesty," Simon said, "a little clause in a law that's nearly 150 years old from a time when there was much infighting between Parliament and the Monarchy which has never before been used was given new light by a portion of our population that has more religious scruples on certain issues than most mainstream Chrinthani. However, at the end of the day, Parliament did rule that the Emperor did not require their approval for his marriage, as it should be. He looks forward to working with the new government after the July election to create a new, modern law to replace the Marriage Act of 1875." Simon took a silent, but deep breath. "The people, though, the people are for this union," Simon added. "As long as the people are on His Imperial Majesty's side, there is no force that can stop him."

[Marimaia]

Lysander tapped his chin in apparent thoughfulness as Ambassador Potter replied to his question regarding Emperor Nathaniel's marriage.

"Mister Ambassador, I must admit that individuals who use technicalities to stymie a monarch's marriage just to satisfy their own petty worldview...well, they sound little better than communists." The King pulled a face as he said that particular word, making his distaste for the ideology abundantly clear. "The Empire of Chrinthania and His Imperial Majesty will be in our prayers as we hope that his subjects will see sense and elect a Parliament which will be infinitely more respectful of his position and the history behind it. After all, if it were not for his family then they wouldn't even have the right to vote. A little gratitude should be forthcoming, surely."

He smiled slightly at the ambassador. "Then once your Parliament has been elected, we might be able to get down to some serious business. The Soviets and the Drapoel are an ever-present threat to both of us, and we here in Marimaia have developed plans for increased cooperation with the Empire on that front. Of course we do realise that not of all these potential plans might be to your government's taste, so we have a wide variety of plans and hopefully at least one of them might strike a cord with whichever political party is in power after your elections."

[Chrinthanium]

Simon smiled brightly as he spoke, "It is the law of the land that same-sex marriage is permitted and blessed by the State with the full equality of law as traditional marriages and His Imperial Majesty is merely exercising his right as a citizen. I am certain that I can assure you this union would have commence with or without parliamentary approval. As for those who are more religiously-minded about these things, they have the right to believe such things and neither the Government nor His Imperial Majesty would ever expect or desire them to sacrifice their religious principles regardless of whether or not all parties agree with such beliefs."

He continued as he quickly scanned the room, "Your Majesty, I am certain I can speak for any government that takes power in July that we will continue to build our relationship with Your Gracious Majesty and the People of Marimaia and look forward to future agreements which increase the trade and commerce between our respective nations."

Simon then reached into the interior pocket of his suit coat and produced a piece of paper, sealed with the Imperial Seal of Chrinthania pressed in wax. "One further thing, Your Majesty. His Imperial Majesty offers a personal invitation to his upcoming union, officially scheduled for January 13, 2018." He offered the sealed piece of paper to Lysander.

The note, written in Nathaniel's own hand, read as follows:

"My Dearest Royal Cousin, Lysander. It is with great hope and joy that I extend to you and those whom you wish to bring an invitation to my upcoming wedding to His Grace, the Duke of Penrith, on 13 January 2018 here in Darionopolis. It is my utmost hope and desire that you are able to attend personally, though I will reluctantly understand if you are not able. It has been far too long since we've seen each other and what better time than a time of great joy and celebration. If you are able to attend, please RSVP no later than December 1. I hope to see you come January. May God continue to bless you and your dear mother and the People of Marimaia forever. - Nathaniel IV, R.I."

[Marimaia]

Lysander frowned with curiosity as Ambassador Potter handed him the sealed piece of paper, inspecting the Imperial Seal before breaking the wax seal and reading the contents.

Fucking bollocks, he thought as he read the handwritten note from Emperor Nathaniel. If the invitation had been a standard diplomatic communique issued through official channels then there would have been absolutely no problem with him declining and having the Marimaian ambassador to Chrinthania go in his stead. A personal handwritten message from the Emperor himself, on the other hand...

Lysander looked up and flicked his eyes from left to right as he realised that everyone in the throne room was watching him, then adopted his best attempt at a gracious smile as he addressed Ambassador Potter.

"A handwritten wedding invitation from His Imperial Majesty, how...wonderful. I must admit that I was not expecting such an honour." He handed the note to Cleantha so that the Queen Mother could read it for herself, and as he did so the pair exchanged what could only be described as 'a look'. As Cleantha began reading, Lysander turned his attention back to Potter.

"Mister Ambassador, I would appreciate it if you could convey my thanks to His Imperial Majesty for such a personal invitation. Of course we shall have to consult the royal schedules to see if I can actually attend, there may be some juggling involved but we shall do our utmost to make enough time for me to be present."

Cleantha took the opportunity to chime in. "Indeed, I am certain that His Majesty and an appropriate entourage shall be able to attend."

She stepped closer to the throne to return the invitation to Lysander and leaned in close to whisper to him. "Good neighbours, remember?"

The young King of Marimaia managed to maintain his composure and nodded before replying as if she had said something completely different. "Yes Mother, of course you can come as well. I'm certain that you and the Dowager Empress will be able to find a great deal to gossip about."

He once again turned his attention to Potter. "My apologies, Mister Ambassador. The Queen Mother is evidently overjoyed at the prospect of attending the wedding as well, of course provided that His Imperial Majesty would deem that to be acceptable."

If you're going to make me go then you're coming too, Lysander thought to himself.

[The Crooked Beat]

Riga
The recent past

Well and truly it could be said that, within the vast and multifarious realm occupied, indeed often amply overspilled, by Gandvik’s kaleidoscopic, labyrinthine state administration, in all of its numerous bewildering and incredible aspects, there existed no sight, scene, or spectacle more inspiring of sheer dumbstruck awe than that of Folke Snellmann caught at a moment of supreme crisis. This great mind, this world-soul, this virtuoso of bureaucratic craft which in Gandvik had been elevated to an art form, had initially burst into his department’s cavernous floodlit offices, converted from a quartet of Zeppelin sheds no less, with all the force of a whirlwind. Such, at least, was the state of excitement into which his appearance launched that always-busy mega-office, and as drab government-issue clocks wound back around to pass that same hour again, having marked a fully twenty-four hectic others, the heroic tempo of operations showed no sign of abating. Snellmann ran his immense civil-service machine, as was his custom at such moments, from a soundproof cubicle in Hangar No.3, a beige rock, its equilateral sides draped seaweed-like with telephone cables, set amid a sea of partitions, passageways, typing pools, and color-coded sections. Broad windows, their perfect transparency renewed at a regular basis by an attentive team of janitors, provided Snellmann an all-around view of his orchestra, as it were, and incidentally permitted a growing and increasingly mesmerised audience of State Council Ministers to observe Snellmann himself at work, though work seemed an altogether insufficient descriptor.

It would have surprised no observer to learn that orchestral metaphors took shape in many imaginations that early morning Snellmann’s peerless performance. For as all those present knew, or at least very much hoped, what was ostensibly a cacophony of hammering electric typewriters and teleprinters, clattering telephones, and a blend of perhaps hundreds of conversations at ever-mounting volumes, spiced at frequent intervals by the engine-revving of police and army motorcycle couriers sent directly to the source of their post-haste dispatches, in fact all added up to its own sort of masterpiece. Snellmann could not possibly have passed more than sixty seconds of that day-long span without a telephone in his hand, indeed had even spent much of it evidently engaged in more than one simultaneous conversation. No sooner would one handset return to its cradle than Snellmann would take up another, juggling on occasion two at once. It was not apparent to his audience, from its vantage point within a kind of spectator’s box suspended halfway up one of the Zeppelin shed’s vast girder walls, just how many telephones Snellmann actually had at his immediate disposal, until they had in short order watched the full spectrum of civil-service colors pass in moulded plastic, from a kind of robin’s-egg blue to a pale green to offwhite to orange and beyond, pass from desktop to Snellmann’s ear and back to the desk, a sedate rainbow footage of which might well have served the likes of Stromberg, Nilfisk, or VST (leading manufacturers of telephones and audio equipment) quite effectively as advertising material.

Folke Snellmann’s centrality to the purpose of functional government in Gandvik had long been acknowledged, if often grudgingly, by most knowledgeable and honest individuals, and any of those State Council ministers hitherto doubtful of Snellmann’s immense value, perhaps understantably suspicious or jealous of his expansive remit and conveniently ill-defined set of responsibilities, found themselves thoroughly disabused of such notions. Of those who harbored a more realistic appreciation of Gandvik’s premier civil servant, only a handful had ever seen him directly in action, in his departmental element, and the performance to which they were treated, at a time when those ostensible leaders of the Gandvian state were in gravest peril, cast Snellmann in an almost superhuman light. At a moment when unforeseen (or at least unplanned-for) circumstances found them powerless to save themselves, Snellmann offered what was effectively their only hope of rescue, and it was manifestly obvious to the assembled Ministers that their fate could not have been in better hands.

So mesmerized were the State Councilors by the goings-on beneath and before them, and so badly dislocated was their collective frame of mind, that none of them, though constituents of a group notorious for its epicurean tendencies, had the wherewithal to ask for a breakfast beyond the coffee and not-quite-fresh pastries which the overworked departmental staff had managed to drum up. Their collective appetite was scarcely improved when, just before noon, Snellmann to their great surprise exited his control cabin, and began to move through the maze of cubicles and partitions in their direction. Disappearing from view as he climbed the staircase to the Ministers’ booth, he rematerialized moments later to face what was very close to the entire Council of State, all eyes, laden with expectation and trepidation, turned on him. Of that most august body, only Felix Soininen, General Bjorgstrom, and Torsten Gezelius (whose domain the department technically was) were absent, though, linked-in to Snellmann’s telephonic web, their involvement in unfolding events was a great deal more significant and intimate than was that of their otherwise idle colleagues. It would have been a daunting encounter for just about anyone except for Snellmann, who for his own part did not seem capable of being intimidated.

“We must, gentlemen, prepare to greet the new order,” he said by way of introduction, a remark which drew out some truly desolate facial expressions. “However,” at which word the Ministers sensed that all was not lost, “the new order is a patriotic one, and is ready to value all men of honesty and good faith in the state’s service. The new order, in short, is ready to accept help, and I have assured it that help, any and all requested, will be given.”

Margravia
The present day

“Pardon me, mister Ambassador…”

Olli Myllyntausta, eleven years into his particular foreign-service posting, was well used to such interruptions, and had long ago learned to avoid any unnecessary promptness in addressing them. He deftly applied several daubs of blue to his canvas, upon which a strikingly impressionistic cityscape was taking form, before swiveling his chair to face Fourth Secretary Oskar Lukkanen, who for his own part had taken up an anxious pose. “It seems, sir,” explained Lukkanen as the nearsighted Myllyntausta eyed him disappointedly over the inserts of some thick-rimmed government-issue bifocals, “that an aircraft has recently landed in the capital, bearing certain individuals accredited to the department of overseas territories.” Lukkanen had anticipated the look of genuine alarm that flashed across Myllyntausta’s face and was nonetheless frightened by that rare display of emotion on the part of his otherwise stereotypically stoic boss. Myllyntausta immediately grasped the significance of Lukkanen’s report and stirred himself from his artistic recreation with an altogether untypical urgency. “God above,” said Myllyntausta, “they’ve finally gone and done it.” Lukkanen in tow, the ambassador hurried to the embassy’s communications room, where First Secretary Jussi Airola was already busy arranging for the establishment of a satellite link with Riga.

Airola presided over a decidedly chaotic scene whose pervading atmosphere of near-panic in no way diminished on Myllyntausta’s arrival, which just so happened to coincide with the delivery of several voluminous dossiers by clerk. A collision between Myllyntausta and an overloaded young diplomat was only narrowly avoided, the latter earning a sharp look from Lukkanen. Airola had, it appeared, acted with if anything too much efficiency, and before anyone could greatly organize a coherent outline of unfolding events, Foreign Minister Jarkko Kuosmanen’s deep baritone rang across the sound system, carried through space from Riga, to heighten the confusion, which to judge from the atonal chorus of voices surrounding Kuosmanen’s lead appeared to reign on both ends of the connection. Kuosmanen and Myllyntausta each needed several moments to disentangle themselves from subsidiary conversations, and such was their nervous excitement that neither bothered with polite introductions.

“Riga here,” Kuosmanen boomed, “are you receiving? What is the situation?”

“We hear you, Riga,” Myllyntausta answered, his voice tinged with irritation. “According to reliable reports, Zurich has broken quarantine.” Although the connection with Riga was in theory a secure one, no self-respecting Gandvian bureaucrat would have been so rash as to wager anything on the soundness of their country’s encryption systems. Then again, any prospective foreign eavesdropper might connect the dots readily enough. “We are most probably faced with the situation outlined in by cable of the twelfth. How are we to proceed in light of this circumstance?”

“This exact contingency has been discussed, Myllyntausta, as you well know. It’s vital for you to emphasize that Zurich has no diplomatic standing, except as directed by headquarters. It’s essential that you make clear to the host country that any direct visitation from Zurich is not sanctioned by this department and has no remit to negotiate.”

“Understood, Kuosmanen,” answered a frustrated Myllyntausta, “it is as we discussed by cable. However, in line with direction from headquarters, we have avoided all mention of current internal policy with respect to Zurich. We have attempted, in line with your instructions, to avoid raising the issue with the host country. I cannot imagine that the host country has failed to grasp the basic facts of our design for Zurich, and as I mentioned in my cable of the seventeenth, I believe we must expect the host country, not only to receive any visitors from Zurich, but to receive them sympathetically. We must assume that the arrival of travelers from Zurich would not have taken place except by direct if unofficial invitation, and it is my strong suspicion that Zurich and the host country have been in communication bilaterally for some time, weeks if not months.” Myllyntausta, annoyed that his dire predictions were evidently now all coming true, took his chin in his hand and glared at the microphone set-up in front of him.

“As per our discussions by cable,” replied an equally irritated Kuosmanen after taking a moment to tell-off some subordinate bureaucrat on his end of the connection, “the agreed-upon policy was shaped according to the strong probability that suggested alternatives would not materially alter the host nation’s posture and perception. The need to defer a necessarily difficult direct discussion of departmental policy regarding Zurich remains unchanged, the host nation’s probable reaction being essentially identical in every case outlined. It was and is essential that we address the matter after Zurich is made ready for the implementation of our policy, and not before.”

“As I wrote in my cable of the fourteenth,” Myllyntausta answered back as laconically as he could manage, “the approach directed by headquarters ran the risk of unnecessarily souring relations and of forfeiting the host country’s goodwill prematurely. Now that we know channels of communication exist between Zurich and the host country, and are therefore now compelled to face the matter, it seems probable that we will be accused of having acted in bad faith. I fear the host country will reproach us, I dare say understandably, for our lack of forthrightness. Cooperation on Zurich will now be more difficult to achieve, provided it has not now moved beyond reach entirely.”

Kuosmanen, who had already spent the past few months arguing with Myllyntausta over how best to contain what both men agreed would likely amount to some level of Margravian displeasure over Riga’s new colonial policies, detected in his subordinate’s remarks a note of smugness which he did not at all appreciate. “Now look here, Myllyntausta,” he shot back angrily, “if the situation is as you describe it, our course of action is laid out very clearly. You are to arrange an appointment with the relevant department and host country secretary and explain to that individual the present state of affairs in simplest possible language. The host country must be in no doubt, first, that independent initiatives launched by Zurich are invalid, and second, that we will view any negotiations carried out across improper channels most unkindly. Zurich remains the sovereign territory of this state, and external meddling will not be tolerated. The host nation’s choices are simple. It can either play a constructive role in our policy, or it can court serious and disruptive consequences. Is that clear, Myllyntausta?”

“Yes, minister.” With a click, Kuosmanen hung up, leaving Myllyntausta and his assembled staff briefly in silence. "Zurich, Zurich!" Myllyntausta moaned. "Zurich is stained!"

Elsewhere in Margravia City

If anyone sought convincing evidence of the Gandvian embassy’s state of desperation, they would not have to look beyond a decidedly bizarre scene being played out in the arrivals terminal at Margravia City’s international airport. Lieutenant-Colonel Derfflinger had hoped, though not expected, to arrive in Margravia secretly, leaving Myllyntausta and his staff, and by extension Riga, none the wiser. He knew perfectly well, however, that while Lieutenant-General Mattila would predictably shy away from actually preventing Derfflinger’s departure, he would undoubtedly alert Riga, and a deeply amused Derfflinger found himself intercepted, as he disembarked from the airliner, by a predictably red-faced Second Secretary Eero Lindemann, who’d spent several hours already brooding on his anger. As he caught sight of Derfflinger, who met his gaze with an insolent smile, Lindemann exploded.

“What kind of bloody game do you barbarians think you’re playing at?” he roared, to bystanders’ immense surprise. Lindemann, normally as dignified and restrained as any diplomat ought to be, for once did not care that he was making a spectacle of himself. He strode up to an evidently unperturbed Derfflinger, pointing an accusatory finger directly at his chest. “The nerve! You gang of conspirators, you rebels, coming out here on the sly, going behind the ministry’s back, this…this is bloody treason!” Lindemann wagged his finger vigorously, oblivious to the small crowd that he had attracted. “This is a violation of your bloody oath of loyalty! You adventurer, you…you pirate!” Derfflinger’s nonchalance spurred Lindemann to still greater heights of fury. “You damned children! Maybe you don’t quite realize what it is you’re doing, but if you have an ounce of honor in you, if you call yourself a bloody Gandvian and an officer of the bloody Royal Army, you’ll get on the next bloody plane back to where you came from!” If any other man had spoken to him in such a fashion, Derfflinger would have knocked his teeth out unhesitatingly. Lindemann, however, struck Derfflinger as above all a ridiculous figure, one just as incapable of serious physical violence as Derfflinger was gifted in its application, and it was hard to put too high a price on the sight of the gangly bespectacled bureaucrat sputtering and fuming in full view of that foreign public.

“Well, and what do you have to say for yourself? Speak up, man!” Lindemann’s outburst, naturally, had attracted the attention of several police officers, who, as Derfflinger happily noted, were closing in.

“Look, pal, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a tourist, I’m on leave. I don’t know what your problem is.” Derfflinger could hardly keep a straight face.

“Oh, shameless, shameless! You think this is all some kind of joke, do you? Well, this bloody joke might get a lot of people killed!”

Derfflinger would have been perfectly happy to egg Lindemann on like that for hours. Just as the Second Secretary prepared to fire off a new salvo of invective, however, a policeman laid a hand on his shoulder, and he spun around in confusion. Derfflinger sensibly took the opportunity to disengage, and melted into the airport crowd before Lindemann could produce his diplomatic credentials.

“Hey!” the Second Secretary shouted, having lost sight of his target. “Where on earth do you think you’re going? Don’t you walk away from me! By God, get back here!”

“Come on, now, mister,” said a policeman, to Derfflinger’s great satisfaction. “Why don’t you just calm down, huh? People are getting worried. Why don’t we have a sit down somewhere, and we’ll have the embassy send a car? Doesn’t that sound fine?”

“Oh please, oh, Christ, you don’t understand!”

“Look, sir, diplomatic immunity or no diplomatic immunity, we can’t have you out here causing a disturbance. If you don’t calm down, we’ll have to sedate you.”

“Oh, God above!”

[Chrinthanium]

In the deep recesses of Simon's heart, he was laughing with sheer delight as Lysander seemed to have been thrown for a loop. While his face showed no emotion other than a diplomatic smile, he couldn't stop feeling the urge to bust a gut right there in the throne room. He knew vaguely what the message contained-a simple invitation. Funny, these Marimaians and their incessant devotion to the status quo. When left field comes a-calling, they couldn't, in Simon's mind, be more ill-prepared.

"I shall convey your gratitude for the personal invitation and inform the Palace that you will arrive at your final decision in time, Your Majesty," Simon stated perhaps too graciously. "Of course, you are able to bring whomever you wish at your pleasure. I'm certain that The Dowager Empress would be thrilled to spend time with the Queen Mother if her Majesty is able to attend."

Simon then added, "I'm certain that it will be the event of the year."

[Marimaia]

In the deep recesses of Simon's heart, he was laughing with sheer delight as Lysander seemed to have been thrown for a loop. While his face showed no emotion other than a diplomatic smile, he couldn't stop feeling the urge to bust a gut right there in the throne room. He knew vaguely what the message contained-a simple invitation. Funny, these Marimaians and their incessant devotion to the status quo. When left field comes a-calling, they couldn't, in Simon's mind, be more ill-prepared.

"I shall convey your gratitude for the personal invitation and inform the Palace that you will arrive at your final decision in time, Your Majesty," Simon stated perhaps too graciously. "Of course, you are able to bring whomever you wish at your pleasure. I'm certain that The Dowager Empress would be thrilled to spend time with the Queen Mother if her Majesty is able to attend."

Simon then added, "I'm certain that it will be the event of the year."

You must think that 2018 is going to be a very slow year.

Lysander's thought brought a much more comfortable smile to his face as he addressed Ambassador Potter. "Oh, I share your certainty that it will be the event of the year in Chrinthania. So...is there any further business you would like to discuss at this time, while you have my complete attention?"

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Police Headquarters
Margravia City

Inspector Roger Smythe raised an eyebrow as he was informed about the minor fracas at Margravia International Airport which had involved Second Secretary Eero Lindemann from the Gandvian embassy. A ten year veteran of the Royal Marimaian Constabulary, Smythe absently scratched his chin once Chief Superintendent Christian Matthews had finished detailing the incident and asked him for his opinion as Smythe would be handling the police investigation.

"Well Sir, it definitely sounds like Lindemann recognised someone at the airport. Someone who must be of considerable interest to the Gandvians judging by the language used in his public hissy fit. We'll go back through the surveillance footage to see if we can identify the individual and we'll also liaise with the Royal Security Commission to see if they have any information about Gandvian persons of interest who either reside here or have recently visited. I also think it would be prudent to interview Lindemann and any of the embassy staff who are willing to cooperate, if they know this person then it'll make it much easier to find them."

Matthews nodded. "Good. We've already informed the Foreign Ministry about the incident so they can take it up with the Gandvian government. If you're going to interview Lindemann then be on your best behaviour, from the report it sounds like he's something of a drama queen. The last thing we want is to be accused of roughing up one of their bureaucrats."

[Marimaia]

Gua'tak, Takam'aliki Island
Captaincy General of Takamakua
Kingdom of Marimaia

Comprised of just over 960 islands, the Captaincy General of Takamakua was the result of historical Marimaian expansion into the islands and archipelagos to the east of what were referred to as the 'Home Islands' (aka the Marimaian archipelago itself). Although the Margraves of the time had employed the family's favoured strategy of allying with one indigenous tribe/power against a neighbouring tribe/power and then turning on their now-unprofitable ally, they had encountered an indigenous tribe which managed to surpass their (admittedly low) expectations. The Takamakua tribe inhabited an island located roughly at the heart of the area which now comprised the Captaincy General and they met the arrival of Marimaian forces not with resistance or negotiation, but with reverence and collaboration. The Takamakua had assisted the Marimaians in their expansion efforts through several means, including acting as heralds by visiting surrounding islands and encouraging them to submit, as well as providing scouts and warriors to fight alongside the Marimaian forces; although the superior firepower and tactical prowess of the Marimaians almost guaranteed their victory every time they arrived at a new island, the Takamakua still managed to make enough of an impression on their new overlords. After the Marimaian expansion came to an end, Chief Wanatoube of the Takamakua travelled to Margravia City at the behest of then-King Reginald I Margrave and swore an eternal oath on behalf of the tribe to serve the "Chief of Chiefs" as he referred to the monarch of Marimaia. In return for their loyalty during the expansion and the subsequent oath of eternal fealty, the Takamakua had the new administrative authority over the islands named after them and they were permitted to continue practising their own religion and culture while being enshrined in the laws of the Captaincy General as the "pre-eminent tribe" of the islands. The Takamakua also became the source of a new military unit known as the "Remekemad", a battalion of 500 Takamakua warriors with the purpose of acting as the King's personal elite force. Over the decades since their founding, the Remekemad had gained a reputation for ferocity and fearless military prowess due to their extensive training, facility with hand-to-hand combat, and the tribal tattoos which they proudly displayed thanks to the sleeveless black uniforms which had been specifically designed for them. As a result of their uniform colour, most Marimaians referred to them as the "Blackvests" rather than try and correctly pronounce their actual name. Due to their official position of being attached to the Royal Marimaian Defence Forces rather than being part of them, the Remekemad had various practises and traditions of their own as well as a rather unique chain of command; their commanding officer was always the second son of a Chief and this officer held a seat on the Royal Council as a result of their position. As a consequence, all second sons of Takamakuan chiefs underwent the Remekemad training in preparation for this role with regular refresher training in case they did not actually assume command for several years afterwards, as incumbent commanders only relinquished their position upon retirement age or death.

During the reign of King Lysander, Takam'aliki Island was still the capital of the Captaincy General. While ultimate official authority resided with the Marimaian governor who lived in the small city of New Regina (named after King Reginald) on the northern tip of the island, most of the island's day-to-day issues found themselves addressed by the Chief of the Takamakua, who resided in the small village of Gua'tak down the island's western coast. The current Chief was a burly elderly individual named Taksikamu who could trace his bloodline all the way back to the chiefs which ruled the tribe before the Marimaians ever set foot in the region. Due to the average temperatures and the fact that the Takamakua had been permitted to retain their culture, Taksikamu wore a brightly coloured and specifically tailored lungi which was accessorised with an intricate garland of red, white, and yellow bougainvillea flowers (the garland copying the colours of the Marimaian flag to signify the Takamakua's allegiance). Taksikamu also carried a feathered sceptre which was the badge of office for the Chief of the Takamakua, featuring a myriad of colours obtained from the various bird species which either resided on Takam'aliki or visited it. On this particular afternoon Taksikamu was sat upon a cushioned stool in the reception room of the Chief's Hut which was located at the centre of the village of just over 1,000 inhabitants, with his four wives sat in a line against the wall to his left and the largest television in the village showing a rugby game on the wall to his right. As he cheered on both teams due to the fact that both of them had recruited players from the 170,000-strong Takamakua tribe, Taksikamu's attention was drawn away from the game by the appearance of his second son Rakenghu, a muscular young man in his late twenties with long black hair and an intricate tribal tattoo which extended from the right side of his chest down to the wrist of his right arm.

"How's the game going?"

Taksikamu smiled in response. "We continue to be recognised for our prowess on the rugby field as well as the field of battle. It's good that you're here, I wanted to speak with you."

Rakenghu sat before his father on the floor, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap as tradition dictated. "What would you have of me, father?"

"Rakenghu, it is time for you to make your way to Margravia City. Your uncle has reached retirement age and so will be retiring as commander of the Remekemad; as my second son the position now falls to you. It was a day of great pride for our family when you completed the Remekemad training and were recognised as the best in your group. You have continued to excel at the training, and I have no doubt that you will bring a great deal of pride and honour to the Takamakua through your service to the King of Marimaia."

"It will be my honour to command the Remekemad in service of the King, father. When am I expected in Margravia City?"

"As soon as possible, my son. With your older brother Ngiralmau as Chief after I die and you commanding the Remekemad, the future of the Takamakua will continue to be prosperous and glorious."


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Police Headquarters
Margravia City

Inspector Roger Smythe sipped at a cup of coffee as he dialled the liaison department of the Royal Security Commission from the telephone on his desk, not entirely sure of what might arise from the impending conversation. The RSC were Marimaia's ever-vigilant secret police and intelligence service, although they did not possess the sort of foreboding and sinister reputation normally attached to the term 'secret police'. In fact most RSC personnel were exceptionally polite and warm to talk to, and it also helped that the general Marimaian attitude towards the organisation was 'if you've done nothing wrong, you've got nothing to worry about'. Indeed, regular Marimaians viewed the RSC as a bastion which defended them from the scourges of communism, terrorism, and foreign activists who occasionally showed up to complain about the Kingdom's past policies.

"Royal Security Commission Liaison Department. How may we assist you?"

Smythe set his coffee down as his call was answered before giving his name, rank, and personal ID number. One of the various systems in place within the Kingdom of Marimaia involved compulsory biometric ID cards and a corresponding National Identity Register; in this instance it allowed the RSC employee on the other end of the line to quickly ascertain that Smythe was indeed who he said he was. Once the initial identification process ended, Smythe continued.

"I'm calling in regard to an incident which took place at Margravia International Airport between an unidentified male and Second Secretary Eero Lindemann from the Gandvian embassy. Yes, that's the one. I'm heading up the constabulary investigation into the incident and I was just wondering if the RSC had any information on Gandvian persons of interest who either reside here or have recently visited. Basically I'm just trying to identify the other individual involved in the incident."

"One moment please."

Smythe sipped at his coffee once again as he waited a few moments. The RSC employee soon spoke up once again.

"Inspector Smythe?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

"Excellent. I've just checked with the RSC database and I have to inform you that your investigation will have to be closed due to matters of national security. My superiors will of course contact Chief Superintendent Matthews to provide as much of an explanation as they can, given the circumstances, but I'm afraid that this is where the RSC will be taking over the matter. Apologies for any inconvenience."

"Oh, not at all. You've just saved me a lot of time, I'd have hated to be knee-deep in the investigation and then find out that it's an RSC matter. Thanks for informing me."

"Not at all, Inspector Smythe. Have a nice day."

As the phone call ended, Smythe simply shrugged and checked the time, smiling as he realised that he would have plenty of time to take his wife out for dinner that evening.

[The United Gulf States]

Fort Water, New Legio

“Another?” Ravenshaw offered, presenting his silver cigarette case to the gentlemen with whom he shared a few square yards on this faux-baroque balcony over-looking a lush green garden, thick with tropical vegetation.

Joki declined with a shake of the head and flutter of his formidable whiskers. It wasn't eminently clear whether Adam's offer had been passive-aggressive, given that everyone in the Federacy knew full well that Hughes was a pipe man. The Foreign Secretary took out his clay never the less, and dumped its ashes on the bone-white tiles before packing another smoke of his own.

Colonel Fevecov cocked his chins a couple of times and extended his withered paw without speaking, accepting a fine Nova Gallic cigarette. He gestured for a light from the Secretary of State without issuing so much as a nod in thanks for the expensive indulgence.

The Secretary of State obliged before lighting up his own. Ravenshaw took a long, deep drag and -without fully exhaling- began to speak about the success of his signature bill in practice. The National Service Act of 2014 had, after all, increased the Federacy's active military strength to almost a third of a million hands and the reserve forces to more than eight-hundred thousand! Almost enough fodder to sustain a campaign across the thirsty Sonora Desert, he liked to imagine.

Fevecov cut him off. The Colonel broke in rudely, between sucks on his cigarette that were more superficial puffs than meaningful drags, explaining to the SoS that, “What you politicians don't understand is that the people... want... change, and the people... are... the Union! You see?”

Ravenshaw's lip curled around his cigarette. The Colonel went on, at length.

Fredonia

“Bastard dodged the Police Action, you know. Daddy got him a study exemption. But does he have any fuckin'...” Boehm flicked his stained-yellow hand in the air in an effort to summon the desired term. “Qualifications?” That sufficed, and required no answer. “Can't we send him somewhere? The cunt has a reinforced brigade answerable! Christ! What will he do with that if we don't give him some other toy?”

Wendall won this one, as the President -still stroke affected- did not see fit to waste his finite energies on this fight.

Margravia City

“It's a wet heat. A wet heat. That's why they're all sticky, sticky people. Dirty really.”

A few nods and a difficult handshake from the pilot saw the Colonel off his charter flight as Fevecov arrived to take-over as Ambassador to Marimaia and to expand the role considerably, per his legally dubious mandate.

His first job, which he didn't much like, was to introduce the Secretary of State and former Prime Minister, Adam Ravenshaw, to the Marimaians as he made a slightly awkward visit on behalf of the troubled Federacy. Though Ravenshaw's American Party lead the government in Fredonia, it had been obliged by the incomplete nature of its democratic majority to incorporate into several high offices members of the Constitution Party to which Fevecov was aligned, and things were not going well.

The SoS had insisted on coming here, in hopes of mitigating the damage he was sure the Colonel would do to highly valued Gulfer-Marimaian relations. Boehm was an idiot. This appointment actually mattered! He left the airport in a separate motorcade while Fevecov was still in the airport, accepting the salutes and other gratitudes of local officials and staff.

“Boehm will sink us, and this toad is his fucking straight-running torpedo.” Adam lamented as he headed to a hoped-for meeting at the palace, leaving the new ambassador to sun himself on the apron.

[Chrinthanium]

In the deep recesses of Simon's heart, he was laughing with sheer delight as Lysander seemed to have been thrown for a loop. While his face showed no emotion other than a diplomatic smile, he couldn't stop feeling the urge to bust a gut right there in the throne room. He knew vaguely what the message contained-a simple invitation. Funny, these Marimaians and their incessant devotion to the status quo. When left field comes a-calling, they couldn't, in Simon's mind, be more ill-prepared.

"I shall convey your gratitude for the personal invitation and inform the Palace that you will arrive at your final decision in time, Your Majesty," Simon stated perhaps too graciously. "Of course, you are able to bring whomever you wish at your pleasure. I'm certain that The Dowager Empress would be thrilled to spend time with the Queen Mother if her Majesty is able to attend."

Simon then added, "I'm certain that it will be the event of the year."

You must think that 2018 is going to be a very slow year.

(OOC: Thought I posted this, somehow I didn't)

"No, Your Majesty," Simon said with a polite nod. "I am grateful for your time and look forward to continuing the work between our two great nations."

The meeting had been going better than Simon supposed. Perhaps the Marimaian king wasn't as described in the dossier after all. Perhaps he was just on his good behavior. Whatever the reason, Simon felt his confidence surging as the meeting was drawing to a close.

"Were there any concerns you wish me to address with my government, Sir?" Simon added.
Lysander's thought brought a much more comfortable smile to his face as he addressed Ambassador Potter. "Oh, I share your certainty that it will be the event of the year in Chrinthania. So...is there any further business you would like to discuss at this time, while you have my complete attention?"

[Marimaia]

(OOC: Thought I posted this, somehow I didn't)

"No, Your Majesty," Simon said with a polite nod. "I am grateful for your time and look forward to continuing the work between our two great nations."

The meeting had been going better than Simon supposed. Perhaps the Marimaian king wasn't as described in the dossier after all. Perhaps he was just on his good behavior. Whatever the reason, Simon felt his confidence surging as the meeting was drawing to a close.

"Were there any concerns you wish me to address with my government, Sir?" Simon added.

"Nothing immediate, Mister Ambassador. Should anything particularly urgent arise then we shall not hesitate to contact you, but I believe that meatier matters can wait until after your governmental elections."

Lysander rose from his throne, a clear message that he considered Ambassador Potter's audience with him to be at an end. "I am confident that you will enjoy your time with us here in Marimaia, Mister Ambassador. Visit our museums, our concert halls, our opera houses, our art galleries. Immerse yourself in the culture that the House of Margrave forged as we asserted our destiny and created a prosperous kingdom from the barest of bones."

The King smirked slightly as he continued. "Perhaps you'll have a promotion fast-tracked if you successfully 'get inside our heads'. Good day, Mister Ambassador."

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Margravia City

“It's a wet heat. A wet heat. That's why they're all sticky, sticky people. Dirty really.”

A few nods and a difficult handshake from the pilot saw the Colonel off his charter flight as Fevecov arrived to take-over as Ambassador to Marimaia and to expand the role considerably, per his legally dubious mandate.

His first job, which he didn't much like, was to introduce the Secretary of State and former Prime Minister, Adam Ravenshaw, to the Marimaians as he made a slightly awkward visit on behalf of the troubled Federacy. Though Ravenshaw's American Party lead the government in Fredonia, it had been obliged by the incomplete nature of its democratic majority to incorporate into several high offices members of the Constitution Party to which Fevecov was aligned, and things were not going well.

The SoS had insisted on coming here, in hopes of mitigating the damage he was sure the Colonel would do to highly valued Gulfer-Marimaian relations. Boehm was an idiot. This appointment actually mattered! He left the airport in a separate motorcade while Fevecov was still in the airport, accepting the salutes and other gratitudes of local officials and staff.

“Boehm will sink us, and this toad is his fucking straight-running torpedo.” Adam lamented as he headed to a hoped-for meeting at the palace, leaving the new ambassador to sun himself on the apron.

King Lysander inspected himself in a full-length mirror and smoothed down the front of his black Nehru-style suit while Queen Mother Cleantha fussed around him with a proud smile. While the young monarch had needed to be reminded of the new Chrinthani ambassador's appointment, the appointment of a new Gulfer ambassador was a completely different matter. More than that, the Federacy's Secretary of State had come with him! Relations between the Federacy of the United Gulf States and the Kingdom of Marimaia had always been rather close due to the Margraves having been Gulfers before they established their own domain in Asia; the Kingdom of Marimaia was one of the few nations which maintained normal diplomatic and trade relations with the Gulfers, showing no concern over the Federacy's racial policies.

"How do I look, Mumsy?"

Cleantha clasped her son's shoulders and beamed at him. "Splendid and handsome as always. It's always an honour to receive a visit from the father country, and they obviously want to make an impact if they've sent their Secretary of State over."

Lysander nodded in agreement. "Might have something to do with their elections. I really wanted the American Party to win an overall majority to keep everything nice and simple, but now that they've had to compromise with those Constitution people...makes me glad that we don't bother with all that democratic piffle. Anyway, time to greet Secretary Ravenshaw. Shall we?"

He offered his arm to Cleantha, who entwined her own arm with her son's as the pair left the King's private quarters and made their way to the throne room of Tomasine Palace with Lysander's three favourites following close behind.

[The Crooked Beat]

If Ambassador M had been an angry or a vengeful sort, which emphatically was not the case (though, it was true, enough examples of the type could be found within the vast Gandvian civil service), he would still have struggled to dress Secondary Lindemann down more severely than Lindemann had already done to himself. That the Second Secretary had, by losing his composure, and in so public a setting to boot, acted in a manner quite unbecoming of a foreign service officer was a fact which no one familiar with the details of the event would care to dispute, and Lindemann had in so doing placed Gandvik’s diplomatic mission in a decidedly embarrassing position. As third-in-command of a posting whose requirements in the article of tact, never modest, had recently taken a sharp increase, it was equally obvious that Lindemann should have known better, obvious not least, of course, to Lindemann. Then again, anyone who’d seen Lindemann in action over the past weeks and months, or indeed across the decades of his diplomatic service would probably have found it difficult to hold it against him. Lindemann could scarcely have chosen a worse moment for such an outburst, it was true enough. Yet the fact that it was so far out of character for the Second Secretary made it, to most observers, seem all the more tragic, and in light of the pressure placed on the embassy following recent political changes in the home country, so much of which was borne by Lindemann, some manner of collapse did not, in retrospect, seem at all surprising. With the understandable exception of the harried and overworked First Secretary Airola, whose short temper had just as strong a justification, Lindemann met with nothing save for expressions of sympathy upon his return. Even Airola, after a moment’s reflection, hastened to withdraw his initial remarks, and spent the rest of the day feeling much angrier at his own unkindness than he had at Lindemann.

Just exactly what Lindemann thought of his own performance at the airport would have been abundantly clear to anyone who happened to catch sight of his normally gaunt and pale figure looking yet hollower and more ghostly, his teeth clenched behind tightly-drawn lips and his eyes set in a severe, freezing-cold gaze. Myllyntausta, who since learning of Dettinger’s landing with all its subsequent implications had been overtaken by a pleasantly peaceful sensation, a certainty that, however events subsequently unfolded, there was not much of a part left for him to play, felt tears welling in his eyes as he beheld Second Secretary Lindemann, shown into the Ambassador’s office with a letter of resignation in hand. He had never before seen his long-time subordinate, that highly-regarded thirty-year veteran of the Foreign Service, or for that matter any senior civil servant in his recent experience, laid so terribly low, and only the certainty that such a gesture would only have intensified Lindemann’s discomfort deterred Myllyntausta from wrapping the Second Secontary in a comradely and, in all save for such exceptional circumstances, quite un-Gandvian embrace. As it was, Myllyntausta, daubing the skin beneath his large glassy green eyes with a handkerchief, did rise to his feet and take Lindemann’s hand, offering as he did so words meant as consolation. While perhaps insufficient to shift Lindemann from his desolate mood, they were, at least, sincere and genuine, and such a gesture when offered by a senior civil servant was a rare one indeed.

Lindemann, red-faced and too furious by far to join Myllyntausta in any kind of sentimentalism, left the Ambassador alone to contemplate his next task. Myllyntausta might have regretted Lindemann’s departure still more had the Ambassador not felt a near certainty that his own personal mission, and quite likely that of the embassy overall, was nearing its end. It seemed to Myllyntausta, certainly, and incidentally to Foreign Minister Kuosmanen also, that Dettinger’s appearance on the scene as independent emissary for a political power which emphatically did not answer to Riga meant that certain uncomfortable truths, the likes of which both the embassy and its hosts had until then preferred to tiptoe around, would have to be dealt with directly. Myllyntausta could perhaps be forgiven for regarding the interview at Marimaia’s own foreign affairs ministry, at which explanations would be asked for and offered, as a most unattractive prospect. In light of recently-changed circumstances, Myllyntausta could not help but note, there existed a decent chance that Marimaia might simply refuse to accept the Gandvian ambassador’s credentials, a scenario which, it must be said, would have suited Myllyntausta perfectly well.

The crux of the matter was that Dettinger signified, among other things, the inevitable collapse of Gandvian efforts to sneak reforms to its colonial administration on Sumatra past the Marimaians, or at least to cast the changes under consideration in as inoccuous a light as possible. For it seemed a fairly sure bet that Marimaia, if its own behavior could be taken as a guide, would not approve, indeed, emphatically so, and by not raising the issue, Riga saved itself the trouble of sparking an open breach with that island empire at a time when matters on Sumatra only promised to become more delicate. It had occurred to Myllyntausta, and to his boss Kuosmanen as well, that Margravia had most likely decided to mirror that exact policy, perhaps not feeling itself strong enough to confront Gandvik directly or perhaps too uncertain of prevailing circumstances to risk committing itself. Now that Dettinger had shown up, both sides could stop pretending that they didn’t know what the other was up to, and the very manner of his delivery to Margravia, under a guise that could scarcely have been thinner, appeared, furthermore, to suggest that the Marimaians no longer saw in Gandvik a source of much danger. If that happened to be Margravia’s calculation, Myllyntausta knew only too well, it was spot-on.

Ambassador Myllyntausta, therefore, was disappointed to receive the approval of his request for a meeting with the Marimaian foreign minister. At a moment when relations between the two states were poised to take a sharp dive, and when Gandvik, never a particularly terrifying power in the Pacific realm, had just, by declaring the new Democratic Republic’s “irrevocable socialist character,” robbed itself of any dignity which it might have had as a Principality in Marimaian eyes, Myllyntausta knew to expect a rather hostile meeting. If a chewing-out and a dressing-down was all he had to look forward to, Myllyntausta would have preferred to save himself the trouble. Then again, his instructions from Kuosmanen were clear enough. Little enough though he may have cared for it, Myllyntausta was determined to play his part to the bitter end.

Lieutenant-Colonel Dettinger, meanwhile, was in an entirely different frame of mind as he sat aboard a taxi en route to his own meeting with Marimaian officials. Where the scene at the airport had left Lindemann, inwardly at least, quite devastated, Dettinger had found the experience, especially after his long flight, most refreshing. Precious little love, of course, was lost between officers of the colonial army and denizens of Gandvik’s monstrous state bureaucracy, two institutions which tended to look upon one another with deep and mutual scorn. And Dettinger, though he had not anticipated that particular opportunity to confound one of those despised officials, was heartily glad to have had it.

That the cover for his ostensibly secret mission had obviously been blown did not trouble the lieutenant-colonel in the slightest. Even better than his undoubtedly well-informed hosts and, he hoped, benefactors, who would have found the process of collecting intelligence on Gandvik an almost frighteningly simple process (such was the nation’s seemingly in-born inability to keep secrets), Dettinger knew that, whatever Myllyntausta might say to the contrary, Riga’s capacity for action in Southeast Asia was decidedly meager. Gandvik, in a trend that successive colonial governments had tried without much success to reverse, had been gradually divesting itself of its interests in the region ever since the late 1940s, when it finally dawned on metropolitan policy-makers that the colonial project held out no hope whatsoever of returning Riga’s investment. The consequence was a steady devolution of powers to colonial notables whose day-to-day activities tended to be looked upon by those in Riga with a strong mixture of disdain and disinterest. While Gandvik was, according to the letter of the law, committed to defend Sumatra with its full power, the metropole’s deep reluctance to involve itself in any kind of conflict for Sumatra’s sake had long been obvious to colonists there, and the immense, moderately well-equipped local military establishment which was the direct consequence of that policy also meant that now, when Riga did wish its colony to do something, it would find the available methods of coercion few and far between. In short, after having been as good as told by Riga that they would for all practical purposes have to look after themselves, the colonists were not much frightened by the thought of their losing such help as Riga did deign to give.

The region’s two great communist regimes, however, loomed larger in the minds of colonial officers and politicians as they prepared to take a step from which there could be no return, and that particular consideration explained above all else Dettinger’s presence in Margravia. Dettinger and his sizable circle of co-conspirators had never harbored any doubts as to Marimaia’s enthusiasm for an independent, minority-ruled Sumatra, especially now that Gandvik was actively attempting, as Dettinger certainly saw it, to turn the place over to the reds with unseemly haste. But while Gandvian plans for what was very much hoped would be a largely peaceful transition to majority-rule had to all appearances collapsed utterly, the threat posed by those other and much nearer leftist states remained, and it was one which officers of the colonial army had always treated with utmost seriousness. Independence could be brought off easily enough, Dettinger knew. It would not be quite so simple a task to hold onto it. If Dettinger’s mission succeeded, independent Sumatra might expect to sleep more easily.

[Marimaia]

Foreign Ministry of the Kingdom of Marimaia
Margravia City

The Foreign Ministry building in Margravia City was a particularly stylish structure, comprised of a light chrome-coloured five storey publicly accessible building with an attached tinted glass-clad twenty storey tower which housed the low-level bureaucratic offices, hardcopy records and various conference rooms. Situated on the one of the various waterfront boulevards of Margravia City, the Foreign Ministry building afforded its employees with a beautiful view of Margravia Bay and had endured several typhoons in its time, only occasionally requiring the replacement of a few panes of exterior glass. The twentieth storey of the building housed the office of the Foreign Minister as well as several well-appointed conference rooms and reception lounges, rather befitting of the Foreign Minister as the position was always held by a Margrave due to its significance. The current Foreign Minister was Duke Piers Margrave, an uncle of King Lysander. An intelligent and businesslike individual, Piers had served with distinction as Foreign Minister during the reign of Lysander's father, King Thomas II, and there were simply no other candidates who possessed his experience at diplomacy. Piers also held some rather strong ideas about the domestic politics of the Kingdom of Marimaia; he fully supported Lysander's reign as he was the rightful heir of King Thomas II but he was not overly fond of Queen Mother Cleantha's influence over the young monarch. As far as Piers was concerned, Cleantha was an unwelcome barrier between King Lysander and his Royal Council, feeling that without Cleantha around the Royal Council could help to guide Lysander more effectively.

On this particular day, Duke Piers was awaiting the arrival of Ambassador Myllyntausta. The Gandvians had once been viewed with some degree of appreciation by the Marimaians but recent events had all but eradicated that sentiment. Gandvik becoming a 'Democratic Republic' had raised eyebrows but not necessarily caused relations to freeze over, but the declaration of the republic's "irrevocable socialist character" had a similar effect to that of liquid nitrogen. When Thomas II had exploited the 'Twin Red Threat' to justify the invasion of Sabah, Piers had supported it to the hilt, and as a result he was not well-disposed to the Gandvian presence in Marimaia. The incident at Margravia International Airport involving one of their embassy officials had further soured the Duke's view of the Gandvians, and he would have no issue with making this abundantly clear to Ambassador Myllyntausta upon his arrival. Piers stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out of a window at the impressive view when his secretary buzzed through on the intercom.

"Forgive the interruption Your Grace, but Ambassador Myllyntausta has arrived."

Piers grimaced as he strode over to the desk and responded by hitting the intercom button.

"Thank you Ms. Denbigh. Show him in please."

A few moments later the office doors opened wide as Ms. Denbigh ushered the Gandvian ambassador into the Duke's office before nodding and leaving, pulling the doors closed as she did so. Once they were alone, Piers scowled and fixed the Gandvian with a penetrating glare.

"What...the hell...are your staff playing at?! We accepted your new republic because we have nothing against republics. We have tolerated your newfound socialism. We draw the line at one of your staff nearly causing a panic at our capital's international airport! Do you have any idea how furious King Lysander is about all this? With what little respect you are due, give me one good reason why the Kingdom of Marimaia should not expel you and your entire staff. Go ahead, I'm waiting."

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Royal Security Commission of the Kingdom of Marimaia
Margravia City

By contrast, the headquarters of the Royal Security Commission was a very utilitarian ten storey building near the centre of the capital, with the facility actually extending for several floors underground. The Marimaian secret police and intelligence service did not have the sinister reputation enjoyed by some of their equivalent organisations in other nations because the attitude of the general Marimaian populace was one of 'if you do nothing wrong, you don't have to worry about them'. The RSC employed a wide variety of tactics when pursuing potential troublemakers, including tapping phones, intercepting emails, and having suspects tailed; this was all perfectly legal under Marimaian law, as the Margraves had long mastered the art of granting their subjects social liberties while holding onto the political reins of the kingdom. The proximity of Soviet India and Dra-pol actually assisted the Margraves in this endeavour as they could easily exploit the ever-looming 'Twin Red Threat' in order to keep their iron grip on power.

RSC Director Maxwell Margrave-Roxborough was a member of the extended Margrave family which had continued to develop and grow throughout the just over two centuries since Marimaia's founding. A bespectacled grey-haired individual in his late fifties, Maxwell was another individual who gained his position during the reign of King Thomas II and was completely secure in his role because he kept his head down and simply did his job; under Maxwell's tenure the Kingdom of Marimaia had experienced very little in the way of subversion or terrorism as he had no problem with exercising the full extent of the RSC's authority. This was being played out once again in his imminent meeting with Lieutenant-Colonel Dettinger. The issue of Sumatra was of genuine concern to the House of Margrave as it could become a threat just as easily as it could become an opportunity; if Sumatra wound up as yet another outpost of the Red Threat then Marimaian interests would be under far greater threat, but if it became an independent minority-ruled state then the Margraves would have a genuine ally in the region which they viewed as their own backyard. To that end the RSC was scheming to sponsor the Sumatran colonial elites in their attempt to declare independence from Gandvik, justifying it as necessary to the continued security and prosperity of the Kingdom of Marimaia. While this would certainly bring Marimaia into some form of conflict with the Gandvian government in Riga, the RSC had calculated that Riga's reach into Southeast Asia was limited by several factors and therefore supporting Sumatran independence was completely worth angering Gandvik.

As Maxwell finished perusing a report from the RSC attache to the Marimaian embassy in Chrinthania, there was a knock at his office door before his assistant Beatrix Heppelwhite entered with Lieutenant-Colonel Dettinger. An extremely businesslike woman in her early sixties, Beatrix was Maxwell's right hand who was often referred to behind her back as the 'Iron Bitch'.

"Director, Lieutenant-Colonel Dettinger for you."

"Thank you Beatrix, that will be all." As Beatrix retreated from the office, Maxwell rose from behind his desk and approached Dettinger with an extended hand of greeting.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant-Colonel. I understand that you and your compatriots have a situation developing in Sumatra that the Kingdom of Marimaia is well placed to assist with."