Let's Sit and Tell the Tales of Old (Lore Maintenance)

[Excalbia]

Crusader Quarter
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania
1852

Built in the 13th century by the Valdrician Crusaders who either saved Cyretopolitania from Muslim invasion or conquered it themselves, depending on who you ask, the so-called Crusader Quarter lay just west of the ancient Roman-built city and represented the first significant expansion of the city since the 7th century. Though Cyretia had grown much since, pushing into the slums of the Muslim Quarter to the south and erecting modern buildings and amenities, including a rail station, to the north and further west, the Crusader Quarter continued to be home to most foreign embassies and merchants, and the hotels and cafes that catered to them.

One of those cafes, which bore a sign labeling it “La Cour du Pharaon,” sat in the shadow of the Crusader's Gothic-style Catholic Cathedral a block off the district's main street. Inside, the darkness provided some relief from the unrelenting Cyretopolitanian sun and large, open windows allowed the slight breeze to disturb the otherwise stuffy air.

At a table by the back corner, Sir Conrad Burke, the recently arrived Excalbian Consul, gently fanned himself as he smoked a cigar and waited for his lunch guest to arrive. Muhammad Quetzal Tecpatl, according to Stir Conrad's instructions, was a young officer in the Toctepec Empire, the Valdrician Republic's nearest neighbor and rival.

The reports from Epheron suggested that success followed success for the Excalbian Army and its Jariahan allies. The recently promoted Brigadier Lord Bernard Karlsson had already been proclaimed “The Hero of Ajuba” and was being touted as a rising political star. However, no one seemed to have told the Valdricians that they had lost, so they fought on. Hence Sir Conrad's mission to offer armaments on favorable terms to the Toctepecs. Provided they understood against whom they should use them. Or at least threaten to do so.

[Uncle Noel]

Die Brons Huis
Official Residence of the President of the Forellenrivier Republic
Itztlan
1917

Muhammad Quetzal Tecpatl had been on this earth for four score and thirteen years. It is perhaps a testament to our modern world that such a fact today might seem unremarkable. Expected even. But in the seventeenth year of the twentieth century, Muhammad Quetzal Tecpatl was unfathomably ancient. In 1910 the average life expectancy of a male citizen of the Forellenrivier Republic was 51 years of age. So old was he that a man born on his 51th birthday might grow into manhood, take a career, raise a family and pass into eternity and still Muhammad Quetzal Tecpatl would go on. He was nothing less than a modern Methuselah.

That he occupied the highest office of state was solely on account of that great age. When Wamba Grosz took it upon himself to overthrow the constitution of his own devising, he sought to re-baptise that Republic anew. To re-consecrate it. And so he looked to the Forellenrivier’s founding fathers, the men who had first conceived the idea of a united republic. Those men were not politicians or academics; they had been the General Staff of the two former states that had met in Hueyapan to discuss what was to be done with the shattering responsibility that had fallen into their laps. It had been these profoundly practical military men who had birthed the Republic and then bequeathed it to men like Grosz to nurture this new state into adulthood. Those Generals were dead now; gone to meet with Christ or the gods.

All except one. Muhammad Quetzal Tecpatl. He had endured long enough to witness the foundation of a new republic; one whose foundations were sunk in the mud of the Great War. It was for this reason, and this reason alone, that Grosz had chosen Tecpatl to be his Vice-President.

And then Grosz died. He was a decade younger than his deputy and yet it was he who would die first, passing a troubled legacy into the hands of a man who had been a youth of 15 when Joshua the Great had died in 1839.

“Here are the latest casualties figures Mr President.”

Fritigern Unmahteigs studied the old man as he read the reports from the front. As Vice-President he had found himself shouldering more of the burden of office. This was to be expected, and yet still he was amazed by the President. His mind was still sharp, still wanting to be kept fully abreast of every development with the war that consumed everything.

Tecpatl scrutinized them through large spectacles. He said nothing but tutted to himself. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, Fritigern thought the old man might have fallen asleep until he heard the soft mutterings in Arabic. A prayer. Well, they needed all the help they could get these days.

The old man’s eyes opened. “Give me the shell production figures.” Unmahteigs knew better than to cloak or dissemble things from his superior. He had tried that once, tried to shield the old man from the true horror of things. That hadn’t worked. He had been a soldier since before Fritigern was born. He knew well enough the sea of blood they all swam in.

“Here you are Mr President.” He passed him a typed report. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak, and so the Vice-President had to time his audiences for when the old man was at his most alert.

“Hmmm, these show a commendable improvement,” the President ran down the list, “Apart from Goar and Sons. Their production has plateaued.” He looked up and gave his deputy a steely look. “Why?”

Unmahteigs shifted in his chair. “I’m afraid old man Goar is a bit of a..” he searched for a word, “A traditionalist Mr President. He doesn’t believe in allowing women to work in his factory. He says it is bad for morale.”

The President harrumphed. “Kindly tell Mr Goar that the demands of the present emergency do not obviate him from following the directives of this government. Tell him, sir, that if he does not acquiesce to our stipulations then he may find his works taken into public ownership, which might make his morale all the worse.”

The Vice-President laughed. “Of course sir, I will have my secretary remind him of his patriotic duty today.”

Tecpatl yawned. The hours of work were rapidly drawing to a close. “Will there be anything else Unmahteigs?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so sir.” He rustled through his papers. “Oh, there is one more thing sir. The Chairman of the League of Silver Coast Veterans sent a telegram. President Grosz, God rest his soul, had agreed to speak to them at their annual dinner next Saturday. He was wondering whether Your Excellency would honour that engagement?”

Tecpatl went pale. “The Silver Coast?” He looked into the middle distance. “That’s not a phrase I’ve heard in some time…” He trailed off and appeared lost in his thoughts.

“Mr President?”

The old man shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, “No, that would be most improper.” He looked up. “Fritigern.” The Vice-President straightened in his chair at the unusual mention of his first name. “Fritigern, you must go. Tell them…” he thought for a moment, “Tell them I have a prior engagement. Offer them my most sincere apologies.”

“Of course sir, it would be an honour.” Unmahteigs made a note to remind him to tell his wife later.

The President did not reply. He seemed lost in his thoughts again. “It would not…” he paused, “It would not be appropriate for me to attend.”

The Vice-President leaned forward in his chair. “Why sir? If you don’t mind me asking?”

The old man gave a pained expression. “It was such a long time ago….”

Crusader Quarter
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania
1852

Captain Muhammad Quetzal Tecpatl studied himself in the mirror of his boarding house room. He didn’t know what to make of his appearance. He supposed he was dressed smartly, fashionably even. He was no stranger to the outside world, that was the reason why he was here. At 19, when he had not long been a Jackal Warrior, a soothsayer had told him he was destined for a short life. Worried that his time on earth might be short he had abandoned his young wife and child, his promising career, and chased himself halfway across the globe that he might do the Haijj and fulfil his obligation to Allah while he still had the chance. He had seen much of world but he had also brought disgrace upon himself. It was only the direct intervention of the Cihuacoatl, a man whose power was surpassed only by the Emperor himself, that had saved him from being labeled a coward and a deserter. They had clearly decided that he might one day be useful to them; Tecpatl was determined to prove them right.

There was a knock upon the door. He strode across the small room and opened it. Cuetzpalin Calli Acatl stood in the narrow corridor. He could not hide his discomfort from the clothing he had to wear. “Come on,” he said, “He’ll be waiting for us.”

They left the boarding house and wound their way through the narrow streets until they found the La Cour du Pharaon. To Tecpatl it had reminded him of the cities of the Orient that he had passed through on his way to the holy cities. To his compatriot it all seemed strange and foreign.

They entered and made their way to the back and found their target. Cuetzpalintzin Calli Acatl wrinkled his nose at the sight of the smoking Excalbian. Tecpatl, who had assumed that Allah would call him at any moment, smoked cigars in the privacy of his home lest anyone see how he had fallen for foreign customs.

The younger man advanced. “Sir Conrad?” He extended his hand. “Cap..I mean, Mister Tecpatl. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He motioned towards the other Nahua. “My apologies, you were expecting only one dining partner but our esteemed lord, the Emperor of Itztlan, requested that my associate join us. Sir Conrad, may I introduce Cuetzpalintzin Calli Acatl, Lord of the Eagle Warriors.”

The other man shifted uncomfortably. “Hello,” he said in heavily accented English. His right arm quivered as he debated whether to shake the Excalbian’s hand but in the end he decided against it and awkwardly stood.

They sat down, Tecaptl fetching another chair for the small table. “I realise, Sir Conrad, that there is much you would like to discuss with us but, if I may, I will elucidate for you briefly on our customs. My associate’s moniker is his ‘calendar name’ for the day and year he was born according to our calendar. Acatl is therefore not his surname so you may refer to him as Mr Cuetzpalintzin and not fear any impropriety. The eagle warriors are elite soldiers but they also..it is difficult to fully translate into your tongue but think of them as akin to your ancient knightly orders. My associate sits on the Council of Five which rank immediately below the Emperor and his first minister. He is therefore a personage of some import in our country.”

He adjusted his chair. “As for our country, I often heard it referred to on my travels as the Tochtepec Empire. You must realise sir that this name is a fabrication; you will find no Tochtepecs in our country, the name was coined by Valdrican scholars of dubious professionalism. The ancient tribe who built our capital said that they had originated from a ‘rabbit mountain’ and for various reasons this name has applied itself to the entire country. This makes as much sense as describing Excalbia as ‘Tallinn’ because your ancestors hailed originally from the Baltic. However, for the sake of expediency, you may refer to us as Tochtepecs for the purpose of our discussions today. Myself and Mr Cuetzpalintzin serve the Dual Alliance of Itztlan and Cuauhxayacatitlan which is the legal name of our country. Again, for the sake of expediency, you may say that it is the Dual Alliance for whom we are empowered to speak with you today.”

He gave himself a little nod. “Apologies for the monologue but I just thought I would get that part out the way first.” He settled himself at the table. “The Emperor whom we serve elaborated a little on the purpose of our meeting today. I understand you seek our assistance with a common foe?”

[Synessia]

Joint post with Cyretopolitania

Royal Palace, Cyretia
Kingdom of Cyretopolitania
1877

Theodor looked at the city and its harbor from one of the palace balconies. He sighed. Synessia, his beloved Synessia, he would never see it again. The thought hurt him deeply, so he tried to think of something else, but how? It was only two days ago, when he was visiting his wife’s nephew in Cyretopolitania, that he was informed that a coup had deposed him, and was advised not to attempt a restoration. The Braslander ambassador, Prince zu Waldberg, had urged him to return to Markund, where his brother would give him asylum. Brasland, good old Brasland, the land of his birth. He had not set foot there in almost five decades. His siblings were still there, all of them ancient like him. He had changed too much to feel at ease there. Synessia had changed him.

He looked at his wife, who was sitting close by. As usual, he did not know what she was thinking, but he suspected it. Her heart was heavy, as was his. At the dawn of life, they had been stripped of everything. They had given their souls to Synessia, forty-six years ruling that immortal land so frequently ravaged by conflict. Life could be senseless, thought Theodor. He gave them a constitution, a parliament, a prosperous economy, and what was their answer? Ingratitude. Silent tears fell down the old prince’s face, as he saw the ships and boats sailing from and to the harbor. At moments of finality like that one, men thought of their lives and their past decisions…

The prince remembered the day he left his native Brasland. It was at the great port of Halvan that the court gathered to give him their farewell. His parents, King Georg and Queen Amalia, looked like they always did. Statuesque figures deprived of emotions. Theodor, who by then had accepted the throne of Synessia, was now an equal to them, a fellow sovereign. When he said goodbye, he was about to bow, so used he was to be a subject. The Prince of Gialia, who had come as the president of the Synessian delegation that offered him the throne, cleared his throat before Theodor could bend his body. At that moment, and for the first time in his life, he heard his mother cry. He looked at her in shock, and saw the anguished expression on her face. Was she sad because he had not bowed? Or because she feared that she would never see him again? He saw the King’s regal mask fall upon seeing his wife’s pain, and passing an arm around her. Theodor looked at the Prince of Gialia, a stern man, and did not dare to cry. It would not do to show weakness upon his subjects. Instead, he approached his father, who put his hands in Theodor’s arms and pressed them hard. That was all the emotion Georg I could allow himself to express.

“May your reign be long and prosperous, my son”, said the King, with his deep voice. “May the Lord and our Holy Mother protect you all along.”

When Theodor approached his mother, he took her hand and kissed it. She took his hand, in turn, and kissed it too. Then, for the first time in his life, they embraced each other. The Queen sobbed and said nothing, but the prince saw her eyes. He never forgot that sadness, and he carried it with him ever since. It was the last time he saw her.

The voyage from Halvan was difficult, as they sailed in the stormy season. At first they had kept close to the Ultrasylvan coast, for there were fears of a Qubtian ambush in the Avar Sea. They stopped in Monostori, where Theodor and his delegation left their Braslander ship and moved to a Synessian one. They were traveling to Cyretia, where his bride was waiting. He did not want her as a wife, but the Great Powers had decided that she had to be. He landed in the capital of Cyretopolitania in the middle of great pomp and celebration. Cyretians, he had been told, were masters in the art of royal ceremony. The young Sovereign Prince of Synessia was received warmly by the royal family, but he was shocked by how different they were. He had lived all his life in Markund and had never seen people of a different skin color. They were also shorter, so among them he felt like a giant. Theodor remembered when he saw Ilizibith for the first time. She looked younger than her twenty-four springs, and was rather delicate. At the time, he did not know if he liked her or not, but it did not matter. She was a princess, that was all he needed. They married in a bit of a haste, for they had to be in Synessia very soon for their proclamation.

Despite his initial reluctance, Ilizibith became instrumental in his life. She was his best friend and most competent advisor, and even though he had not been faithful, her loyalty never wavered. Unlike his Braslander ministers, who understood little of Kemetian sensibilities, the princess knew that in these lands one needed to impress. Synessians loved grandeur, and they delighted on seeing their princely couple dressed in Byzantine attire, riding across the city’s streets followed by a large entourage of courtiers. The great families of Synessia – the Gialias, Acheleias, Condostefanos and others – loved Ilizibith, and she knew how to cultivate their favor. It was a pity that they did not have children, for Theodor was sure that an heir would have changed his prospects. The people would have been loyal to a child born in their soil.

As he remembered these episodes of his life, Theodor looked at his wife again. He extended his hand and placed it over her shoulder.

“We have lost everything, my darling”, he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “But we still have each other.”

Ilizibith turned and looked at her husband. It seemed so long ago that they had married. She had initially resented being matched with a barbarian from such a distant, upstart kingdom. However, she had relished the opportunity to be the wife of a reigning monarch. She would have had no such opportunity in Cyretopolitania. Of course, over time she had grown used to Theodor. And eventually that familiarity had become something that, if not love, was close enough akin to it to make Ilizibith happy.

“That we do, my dear Theodor,” she said, rising from her chair and offering her husband her hand.

She had hinted and encouraged as much as she could that Theodor rid himself of his Braslander advisor and keepers, but he had not listened until it was too late. But there was no point in saying that now. Instead, she offered a sympathetic smile and said, “You were a good Prince, my dear. The best the Synessians could have hoped for.” She shook her head. “Times, sadly, seem to be changing. Gersem V was chased from Jrawa by republican rascals just over ten years ago. Other countries are seeing unrest and rebellion.” She crossed herself in the Orthodox manner. “I pray every day to the Mother of God and the martyred Saints Cyrus and John that our Lord forbid that my dear nephew never face such rebelliousness here.”

She placed a hand on her husband's back. “We will always have each other, my dear. And we will let that be enough.”

The next day, the deposed Prince and Princess of Synessia boarded a Braslander warship.

“What is her name?”, asked Theodor to the captain.

“Amalia”, replied the officer.

Theodor’s eyes widened. Too impressed to talk, he just nodded, moved. As the officers saluted him, he did the same. A few moments later, with little ceremony, the SMS Amalia departed from Cyretia. As he gave one last look at the Kemetian coast, the Prince’s memories passed in front of him: the clear morning sun from his room in the Old Palace, his loyal valet Arkadios waking him up with his funny Lymosian accent, his campaigns against the Muslim rebels in the south, the Duchess of Livera's delicious lavender scent, riding dangerously fast near the Greek temples of Kilofagu, his proclamation in 1831, meeting Ilizibith for the first time and wondering how they would build a life together... Theodor's eyesight was blurred and he did not move for a long time. The sea breeze caressed his white moustache, as if Aeolus was trying to comfort him.

"Goodbye, Synessia", he muttered to himself. "My body is leaving you, but my heart stays forever."

[Excalbia]

Crusader Quarter
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania
1852

Sir Conrad rose as the two men approached. He took Tecpatl’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir,” he said. After the introduction of the other gentleman, he added, “And you, Lord Cuetzpalintzin.”

After Tecaptl finished his elucidation of cultural norms and his companions' importance, the Excalbian nodded and said, “I am honored that a man of your standing and importance has traveled so far to meet with His Imperial Majesty’s humble messenger.”

He looked to the waiter, who hovered nearby and said in passable Cyretopolitanian Berber, “Drinks for my honored guests, dear sir.” Then, turning back to the two men from what he still thought of as the Tochtepec Empire. “Gentlemen, would you care for tea? Coffee? Or something… stronger?”

After the waiter took their order and left, the Excalbian smiled. “The Emperor whom I serve is hoping to offer your esteemed Emperor… assistance in holding back your… shall we say, aggressive, neighbor along the coast?

“The Valdricians, it seems to us, are an arrogant people. One locked into a colonial mindset. Determined to place those they consider… less than equals under their dominion. They have forced themselves upon the Kingdom of Jariah and the Edowan city states. The King of Jariah is now an ally of our Emperor and, as a good ally, we are assisting them in driving the Valdricians back to the sea from whence they came.

“Upon consideration, however, it seemed to us and to our Emperor that, perhaps, the Emperor of the Dual Alliance might also have… concerns about the Valdricians. And might be interested in having… an ally.”