(OOC: Joint post with Cyretopolitania) The Ormeshys Palace, DfhanorGeofmede Yeskalyn had once hated this time of day. When the Constable had first started to lose his hearing he had found the sensation of waking to almost complete silence to be strange and unsettling. His mind, still half-bound by sleep and dreams, would conjure images of fires or assassins and he lying there in unhearing oblivion prompting him to reach for his hearing aids almost as soon as he had the withherall to do so.
That was then. In time he had grown accustomed to the silence on waking; had found it comforting. An oasis of calm amidst the howling desert winds of chatter and noise. He rose, slowly and creakily, from the bed. Most people said that he was in excellent shape for a man in the middle years of his ninth decade but Geofmede didn’t seem to think so. Everything ached and if it didn’t ache it was because it had stopped working. In any other career he would have long-retired but this wasn’t just any other career. Geofmede Yeskalyn had made an oath; to the king (may his Name be endured), to the people, to the Nine. He would fulfil that oath until he was collected to the place of his fathers.
He was washed and dressed and eating a light breakfast of dates and honeyed bread when his secretary, Nicstaer Yinbalar, arrived. “So what,” asked the constable brushing crumbs from his pencil moustache, “Is the itinerary for today?”
Yinbalar nodded. “Marchfield this morning your Highness followed by tea with Count Massi, sir, the Cyretopolitanian Foreign Minister.”
“And Prime Minister in name only,” nodded the Constable, “I’m not so old that I would forget that.”
Yinbalar nodded again. “Of course your highness. Tea will be truncated; the diary allocates it an hour and a half but the toshiagh would be grateful if you could conclude within half an hour or so. There are, as you will imagine, time constraints and a reluctance to alert the attentions of the Qubtian secret service anymore than we will be doing.”
It was Yeskalyn’s turn to nod. “Will the Hereditary Prince of the Cinque Ports be in attendance?” The Constable had come to believe that he ought to include his son more if he was to become Constable one day. Plus, at his age, his oldest friends were now (for the most part) his children.
“He will sir, he should be,” Yinbalar looked at his watch, “On his way by now.”
“Excellent”
* * *
The ceremony of the Marchfield was a curious mix of the properly ancient and the Victorian revival. It’s purpose had, at one time, been an entirely utilitarian gathering of nobles and priests to settle the affairs of the kingdom before the spring campaigning season. It had gradually died out under the Umayyd and then the Qubti yoke before the Ernestrians revived in the mid-19th century as a grand ceremony for telling the Breucians how they were going to run their country for them.
The ceremony itself took place at the Constabulary Castle, a grand name for the old medieval fort that stood in the centre of Dfhanor and was the reason why the city was the largest in Breucia. Dfhanor could make no claims to be ancient or a grand city of Upper Tametry. It’s importance was solely down to the Yeskalyn Constabulary and the family’s successful seizure of power in the 17th century. Without the Yeskalyn Constabulary Dfhanor would have been just another port town.
Gold carriages pulled by fine stallions, an Ernestrian addition that no one seemed sure what to do with and so it remained, collected the great and good and brought them to the Castle. The Castle was still, officially, the seat of the Senedh (the parliament of Breucia) though in reality much of the actual work took place in newer buildings of less historical importance but greater practicality. The Senedh chamber was preserved and used for ceremonial occasions or noteworthy legislation.
The Constable, leaning on the polearm that was the symbol of his office, outlined the government’s intended business before Prince Trissariph, the king’s uncle, (the king regretfully being unable to attend to the surprise of no one and the relief of everyone) who nodded at the right times. The Count Massi had been so little remarked upon that many members of Parliament were to only realise from the newspapers the next day that the man sat with the with the Royal/Constabulary Party was none other than the Cyretian Foreign Minister and not, as many thought, a businessman who had pulled strings to sit with the great and the good. The occasion having been considered a success, or something with at least a passing resemblance to a success. The Constable and the Hereditary Prince returned to his official residence and prepared themselves to meet the Cyretopolitanian.
Count Anthony Massi was a man of average height, but a thin frame and perfect posture afforded him the illusion of greater height. Dressed in a dark gray suit cut in a modern, though far from trendy, style he could have easily passed as a middle aged businessman from any of the more southerly nations of the greater Western Atlantic.
While the Foreign Minister had found his silent inclusion in the ceremonial meeting of the Constable and members of parliament a bit unusual, he was nonetheless understanding of and, indeed, grateful for their discretion in handling his visit. Qubti, in his estimation, believed that historical enmity between Breucia and Cyretopolitania gave it a freedom to act in ways that would have been circumscribed by any collaboration between its two largest neighbors.
Massi was not an expert in history and, honestly, was a bit hazy on the details of the historical suspicions between Breucia and Cyretopolitania - though he knew the desecration of the Saint Achillias Monastery and the… expropriation of sacred relics to a museum in Ernestria played a role on the Cyretopolitanian side. He also suspected that it had something to do with Cyretopolitania’s national self-image as the inheritor of both the region’s ancient Christian heritage and its pre-Christian and pre-Islamic imperial history. In any case, he knew many Cyretians did not think highly of Breucians, so he supposed it was best to keep his visit quiet until something concrete had been achieved.
The Ormeshys Palace was less of a building and more of an allegory in stone for the last thousand years of Breucian history. It was built by craftsmen from Iskandariya in the Qubto-Ottoman style of the 18th century at a time when the Constable’s court began to outgrow the original castle. It’s courtyards and pavilions were a symbol of the wealth and power of Breucia’s suzerain to the north. It had been extensively remodelled by the Ernestrians in the follow century to a style that was well suited to the boulevards of Bodendorf but which made little allowance for the weather in Dfhanor. In the winter this was tolerable but now, in the summer heat, the drawing rooms and reception areas were hardly bearable at all. It was for this reason that the Foreign Minister was led through the Palace to those areas at the rear that had been relatively untouched by the hand of Ernestrian ‘progress’. The Constable and his son waited in the cool of a marble courtyard beneath the shade of trees and awnings to the trickling sound of a fountain. Both had changed since returning from the Marchfield. Geofmede had swapped his military uniform, with its glittering orders and medals, for a high-buttoned linen tunic and trousers which were dyed olive-green and cut, deliberately, in a military style. Next to him on the glass-topped table was a green cloth cap onto which was sewn a small badge with a gold polearm. The Hereditary Prince, who earlier had been wearing a top hat and morning coat (for the ceremony had been largely unchanged since independence when such clothing was considered standard for formal occasions) into a business suit not dissimilar from Massi’s own. The Prince looked like his father, though taller with a crop of curly black hair whereas his father had succumbed to baldness some fifty years ago. They chatted amongst themselves until they heard the approach of footsteps upon the marble floor and looked to see the equerry with the Foreign Minister. They rose, the Constable batting away a helping hand from his son as he eased himself from his chair. The equerry bowed. “The Count Massi Your Highnesses,” he declared.
The Constable extended his hand. “Your Excellency,” he said in rusty if passable Tamazight.
Massi bowed, then rose to shake the offered hand. “Your Highness,” he said in his own heavily accented attempt at jBreucian, “thank you for the warm welcome.” He slipped back into his native language, “I am honored to meet you. This truly a historic occasion.” He then continued in English, “Would you prefer to continue in a… neutral language? English or French or… something else?” He smiled, hoping to convey sincerity. He was well aware that he was the first senior representative to speak with a Breucian Constable in living memory, and the protocol for their meeting was being developed on the fly.
The Constable shifted uncomfortably and gave his son a sideways glance at his son. Prince Nicryll smiled. “Your Excellency,” said the Hereditary Prince in what might be termed International English, “When my father was being tutored the lingua franca was considered to be..”
“اَلْعَرَبِيَّةُ” Replied the Constable, “Arabic.”
“Or German,” said the Prince. His father nodded. “Yes and German.”
"My Arabic is stronger than my German," Massi said in passable Arabic. "So," he said with a practiced smile, "let us begin. How can we help each other, Your Highnesses?"
The two Breucians looked at each other. “Please,” said the Constable, “Sit.” He did so. “We have tea available; mint, nettle or Qubtian [by which he meant dark tea drunk from tulip-shaped glasses]”.
Massi took a seat after a bow. “Thank you, Your Highnesses,” he said. “I would love to have some of the mint, please.”
Prince Nicryll gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid that we are not the ones to be doing the helping.”
His father nodded. “No,” he replied, “I’m afraid that we are the..” He thought for the appropriate words.
“The cover story,” offered his son.
“Yes, the cover story. We are to keep you talking until the toshiagh and foreign minister arrive.” He sipped his tea.
“It seems a shame,” said Prince Nicryll, “That so momentous a visit should be surrounded in such secrecy. I mean, I presume you know the reason why?”
“I surmised that your domestic… political situation might make direct engagement with Cyretopolitania somewhat… controversial,” the Count said. “Unless there is some… nuance that I have missed. If so, I apologize.”
The Constable shook his head. “No no, that sounds correct I should say,” he replied. “My hope is that your meetings,” he emphasised the plural, “Should help dispel some of that controversy and that more public engagements can follow after that.” He sipped his tea.
There were a few moments of silence save only for the trickling of the water fountain. Prince Nicryll looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Are we not going to tell His Excellency anymore than that father?” he asked. The Constable shook his head.
“It is not our place to delve into political matters.”
“Yes but if we at least indicate to Count Massi the nature of those political matters,” he smiled at the Cyretopolitanian, “Then he can better prepare himself. If his excellency has come here expecting to talk security and we instead want to discuss free trade or an opening of the border then how can we expect talks to be productive.”
The Constable pondered this for a moment. “Very well,” he said, leaning forward in his chair as though to share a secret with his guest, “Qubti sir.”
His son nodded. “You must understand sir that neither myself nor my father have any direct involvement in such things but there is a concern in the intelligence community that Qubti has a hand in the recent….unpleasantness in Cyretopolitania.”
“There’s nothing concrete,” said the Constable leaning back, “If there was it would be on the front pages of every newspaper in the region. But as it is there are strong suspicions.”
“I’m afraid,” said the Prince, “That it wouldn’t be out of character.”
“No,” his father agreed. He leaned forward in his chair again. “I should add,” he continued in a stage whisper, “That the secrecy shown today is not only to thwart Kamel’s agents. Qubti has friends here, sir.” He leaned back and said nothing further.
Massi nodded. “I suspected that… your kind invitation might have something to do with Qubti. We have come to the same belief, but as yet lack concrete evidence.” He paused and sipped his tea. “It is… distressing that Qubti might have friends here in Breucia.” He paused again. “I was, to be frank, hoping that I could broker something of a public rapprochement between our nations.” He gave a wry smile, “One that would have the additional benefit of putting Qubti on its back foot, if you will.”
The Constable murmured an agreement. “In as much as constitutional propriety allows me to have an opinion, that is also my wish as well.” Prince Nicryll opened his mouth to speak but did not get a chance to for there was the sound of voices talking from another entrance to the doorway.
Belphar Faxisys stepped into the courtyard and squinted in the midday light. Unlike the Prince he had evidently not had a chance to change since, although he had lost his top hat, he was still wearing his morning coat. A rather dusty morning coat. Next to him was a middle aged lady dressed formally, not not as formally as the toshiagh, with emerald eyes and neat black hair that hung to her shoulders. She too was dusty. It was evident that, like in many capital cities, there were a series of interconnected tunnels that lead between the main centres of government and it was through one of these that the politicians had arrived undetected. It was also clear that these tunnels had not been used in some time.
Geofmede Yeskalyn smiled. “And that,” he said, straining to his feet again, “Is our cue to leave you.” He extended his hand again. “It has been an honour to meet your excellency, I hope next time we will not have to resort to such subterfuge.”
The toshiagh appeared next to them. He bowed to the Constable. “Your Serene Highness.” He repeated the same to the heir before turning back to the old man. “Thank you for this,” he said with a half-weary smile.
The Constable waved this away. “Not at all,” he replied, “I am glad to be of some use and not just a burden to the Breucian taxpayer.” He winked at Massi. “I shall leave you to it. If you need me to wave our guest off for the cameras then just let me know. Come, Nicryll.” And with that the Constable and the Hereditary Prince of the Cinque Ports left.
Massi stood and bowed as the Constable and Prince left. He the. Turned to the new arrivals.
Faxisys turned to Massi and then looked down at himself. “Thank you for coming,” he said, “And apologies, I don’t normally dress so formally for meetings. May I introduce you to Grewalyn Palee,” he motioned to the woman next to him who extended her hand, “Our Minister for Foreign Affairs.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said with a smile. Almost without anyone noticing with the Constable’s departure the conversation had slipped from Arabic to English.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” the Count said, also slipping into English.
“Please,” said Faxisys, inviting the Cyretopolitanian to sit once again, “I regret that our time is limited before we arose suspicions. It is my worry..”
“And the government’s,” interjected Palee.
Massi took his seat and raised an eyebrow at Faxisys’ and Palee’s comments. “Oh?”
“Yes, and the government’s, worry regarding Qubtian intentions. I think both of our countries, your excellency, have reason to be concerned about Qubtian irredentism in the region. I’m afraid that Iskandariya has not…”
“Has not reconciled itself,” interrupted Palee, “To its reduced standing in the world.”
Faxisys smiled but irritation flashed in his eyes. It would not surprise Massi to later learn that Palee was widely seen as a contender to be toshiagh once Faxisys had vacated the position. “Yes,” he said, “And I,” Palee opened her mouth, “I mean, We believe that a more united front between our two countries might help counterbalance Qubti and dissuade her from further aggressive actions.”
The toshiagh leaned back in his chair, still warm from when the Constable sat in it. “I hope,” he said in a quiet voice, “That we can agree to something for the present crisis and leave the resolution of... other matters,” the words ‘Saint Achillias Monastery’ hung unspoken in the air between them, “Can be addressed when circumstances allow.”
“I agree that a more united front would be… helpful in dissuading Qubti from
direct aggressions,” Massi said. “However, Iskandariya has long been… fond of surreptitious action. Opening, discreetly of course, channels of communication between some of our uniformed and… clandestine colleagues, it might help blunt those actions as well.”
Massi sat back and rubbed his chin. It was a gesture he had already picked from the King when preparing to broach a difficult subject. “I must point out, Your Excellency,” he said looking at Faxisys, “that I do not hold the last word in executive decision-making. That rests personally with His Pharaonic Majesty, the King. And to have common cause, I must raise, I am afraid, the subject of the Monastery.” He paused.
“Let me assure you that we are not seeking to push things too far at this early point, but perhaps some small gesture would help me, and potentially Breucia.” He paused again. “Perhaps as simple as allowing pilgrimages to the site organized under the auspices of the Church? It would mean so much to our people. And, it would represent an influx of tourism for you. And it would be a clear signal to the Qubtian government.”
The Breucians shifted uncomfortably in their seats and exchanged a look. “I am not sure,” began Palee, “That pilgrimages are as small a gesture as your excellency imagines.”
The toshiagh agreed. “I realise that it is not your faith but it is not lost on us that the Crusades started over the protection of pilgrims.”
“And pilgrimages by your church can lead to questions of property ownership, and with ownership comes sovereignty. We obviously grieve over what happened at the Monastery at Olalbel and the surrounding Cyretopolitanian village, as does all Breucia, but any resolution needs to take into account local sensitives.”
“What’s more,” added Faxisys, “The Monastery itself has been untouched for almost two centuries. It would extensive, and costly, rebuilding before it was suitable for anything but crows.”
"I understand your concerns," Massi said, "but I believe that I could work out a solution, if you are open to it. I am sure that the Church would be able to undertake the necessary work to… stabilize the ruins to make them safe for pilgrims. In return for this… gesture. And in return for a pledge on your part, shall we say, to further negotiate with the Church over the… ultimate disposition of the site, I believe that I could persuade His Majesty to officially recognize your territorial sovereignty over Fayyum and the surrounding region. Ultimately, we might be able to include that… recognition in a formal written agreement."
The toshiagh wrung his hands nervously. “Perhaps,” he said, though sounded less than convinced by this. He trailed off.
Palee seized her chance. “Maybe it would be more prudent,” she began, moving forward slightly in her seat, “For representatives from both our countries to inspect the monastery
before we discuss the, as you say, ultimate disposition of the site. The toshiagh is right, the monastery and the surrounding buildings have been open to the elements, and the occasional trespasser, since the 1850s. It’s one thing to say that the Cyretian Coptic Orthodox Church is willing to fund the restoration but such open-ended promises can be liable to later regret once the scale of the task is known.”
She straightened slightly. “Perhaps that is a good place to conclude. Your king and his government now know our concerns over Qubtian efforts at destabilizing the region. I do not think our two countries are yet in a position to make any formal, public declarations on the subject though there is scope for the normalisation of relations
if,” and it was a big ‘if’, “We can reach a solution to the Olalbel question. Perhaps the toshiagh would like to propose that a joint working be established to survey the monastery in….shall we say a week? Two?” She looked at Faxisys who blinked dumbly at her.
“Er yes,” he finally replied, “Well I will let Count Massi decide since they will be ones undertaking any possible works.”
Massi nodded gravely. He realized that his counterparts were not ready to move forward as quickly as he was. He also realized it was probably for the best, as he may well have been going further than the King would like.
"I think a… binational survey of the site would be an excellent first step," he said to Palee. "I will have my staff contact you to arrange the details." He turned back to Faxisys. "I would also like to propose that contracts continue on the working level to… compare notes, as it were, on Qubtian activity. If that would be acceptable."
“Agreed,” said the toshiagh rising to his feet, “Thank you, your excellency, for your time today. I believe these are excellent first steps on the normalising of relations between our two kingdoms. I propose that representatives from our professional security services continue to meet while we politicians, and your king, come to a more permanent solution.”