Dirges in the Dark (closed)

[Ernestria]

“I am afraid,” he paused to compose himself, “I am afraid to say, your Royal Highness, that your brother, Prince Paul, is dead.”

Prince David, the colour draining from his face, stumbled backwards before steading himself on a rococo sideboard. Tears welled in his eyes. “My God,” he said, the hint of a sob on his voice, “My God not Paul.” A gloved hand to his face, the camera focused past him to the figure of Princess Christiana and the slightest of smirks that crept across her face.

And then the credits rolled. “Oh,” said Vanda Keszthelyi, “That was good. Do you want to watch another?” Her husband, Osvát Keszthelyi, glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece and sighed. “Best not,” he said, “There’s a press conference tomorrow on the booster program and you know how much I love those. I should try and get an early night.”

Vanda said nothing but, raising herself from the couch, began to collect the plates, cups and other detritus of dinner. “She’s okay,” she said, “The actress who plays Christiana, but I think the one who played the younger version captured her better. What was she called?”

Osvát thought for a moment. “Elke Rühl,” he said after a moment, “She was in the A híd.” His wife made a noise of agreement.

Das Schwert, ‘The Sword’, had been the breakout star of Ernestrian television of the last few years. A semi-fictionalized account of Emperor David IV of Excalbia and the rest of the Imperial Family had been a ratings sensation and talks were already well underway for an English-language remake, especially now that the programme’s conclusion had unfortunately been brought forward.

Osvát Keszthelyi relaxed back into the chair and fumbled for his pipe. The Leader of the Socialist Party cut an unlikely figure. He looked and sounded like an old-fashioned headmaster of a provincial secondary school. A famous picture of him, widely circulated in the Press whenever mention was made of him, showed him cutting the grass of his suburban home in a shirt and tie. Perennially underestimated by his showier, more intellectually rigorous opponents within the party, he had been the compromise candidate who had solidified his hold over 10 years. A quiet, respectable man; simultaneously forgettable and vital. He was, with his Party, the driving force of the coalition government.

The Christian Democrats were a shambles. Tired of government, bereft of ideas, they were like a line of extinct volcano which occasionally emitted a puff of smoke but were otherwise silent. The duke of Starograd remained as party leader primarily because no one else wanted the job. After 8 years of government they deserved a spell in opposition to recuperate, what they got was an electoral landscape that was slowly fracturing under the competing weight of nationalities and ethnicities yearning for independence. Men in grey suits assembled and, in solemn invocations, demanded that something be done ‘for the good of the country’. And so the party of Cincinnatus were denied the plough once again and made ready for another term in office.

On the other side, the Ruthenian Farmers Party practised a pork-barrel politics of the best, or worse, sort. Need to pass a budget? A leisure centre. Tax reform? A new bypass. Constitutional amendment? A regional airport. Osvát’s colleagues sniffed that the RFP knew the price of everything and the value of nothing, but Keszthelyi found his dealings with them refreshingly free from ideology.

He lit his pipe and looked through his notes. There had been some concerns over the current variant of VODAIS-6 but, thankfully, an increase in transmission didn’t seem linked to an increase in severity. Vanda returned to carry more of the dishes into the kitchen. “On the basis of current figures,” said Osvát as she passed, “It looks like we can avoid another lockdown.” His wife wasn’t listening.

“Do you think,” she asked, “They could make something like that for our Royal Family?”

“Like what?”

“Das Schwert?”

Osvát thought for a moment. Although Tarján, and fiercely proud of it, he also maintained a common sense patriotism to Ernestria; a fact which (alongside the centralised structure of the Socialist Party and a recognition that the Party’s aims were better served in a united nation rather than a host of smaller states) had helped keep the Socialists a united force when so many of their rivals had broken up into smaller ethnic parties. He was therefore inclined, out of a sense of loyalty to the king, to disagree.

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” he replied after a moment, “The Royal Family is far too boring for anything as dramatic as Das Schwert.”

Vanda disagreed. “Well you say that Osvát,” she said, hands on hips for added emphasis, “But Keraunos and Prince Demetrius were killed on their boat by that bomb.”

Osvát sniffed. “That was terrorism, Vanda, not tawdry entertainment.” She shrugged and went about her tasks.

Keszthelyi tried to read his notes again but found he couldn’t. Something his wife had said had stirred up something half-forgotten.

“Having said all that,” he said, partly to his wife and partly to himself, “They’re not that uninteresting. After all, there is that son…”

He had not expected his wife to hear but she had. She swung round and gave him a look. “Now don’t start all that again Osvát!” she said with a stern wag of her finger.

Her husband protested. “All what?”

Vanda was not impressed. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. You and that conspiracy theory of yours.”

“It’s not a conspiracy theory Vanda! I remember the scene perfectly well. Radnótfája, we were campaigning in the local elections in 1996. Myself, Flórián Papp and János Hegedüs were about to do a leaflet run when the radio announced that the Queen had given birth to a son. There was even something in the paper the next day.”

The past is another country; they do things differently there. So even in 1996 it was not unusual for royal children to be kept from the limelight. There were no happy pictures of the couple holding the newborn; only a curt announcement to a public who probably weren’t even aware the Queen was with child. It was different now of course.

“I know what you say you remember Osvát, but I don’t remember it. What do Flórián and János say?” Osvát did not reply but stared into the fire. “What do they remember?” his wife pressed.

“They don’t,” he replied.

“And what did the newspaper say when you checked the archive?”

Osvát squirmed in his chair. “It didn’t say anything. But Vanda, I know what I remember!”

She sat down next to him. “Look, Osvát, I know you have a good memory but it was over 20 years ago. Perhaps you made a mistake.”

He folded his arms. “There is nothing wrong with my recollection Vanda.”

She gave the smallest of shrugs. “Okay then, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say that there was a son; You remember how longed-for Prince Johann was. How the King and Queen struggled to have him. Why would they go through all that if there was another son?”

Osvát puffed his pipe importantly. “I don’t know…”

“Well..”

“I don’t know Vanda but something tells me, with every fibre of my being, that something is awry here. Something is being kept from us, the public, and we should be told.”

“What if he’s dead Osvát?” she stood up, “What if the reason no one mentions it is because the little boy died? Do you want to go poking around someone else’s private grief?”

“If you’re right,” he replied, “Then there is no harm in telling us. We don’t need to know the details. If we knew something of their private torment it might help the King and Queen. Make them more relatable.”

“Osvát that is a cruel thing to say.”

“It’s not Vanda and you know it. With the parlous state of their reputations they could do with all the help they could get. And even if it doesn’t, we still have a right to know. No one, not even Royal Princes, just disappear.”

“Maybe they don’t want to be reminded of it”

“It is a bit much to change newspapers to remove all mention just to avoid being reminded Vanda. I’m telling you, someone isn’t hiding the truth they are actively removing it.”

His wife’s patience gave out. “Fine Osvát,” she said, raising her hands in the air, “Fine, well you’re the Deputy Prime Minister. You have all the powers of the government at your disposal. If you think that somehow you’re the only one who remembers this mythical child then why don’t you do something useful and find out?” With that she stormed back into the kitchen.

Osvát Keszthelyi stared into the flickering flames of the fire. “Maybe I will,” he muttered to himself, “Maybe I will.”

[Ernestria]

Parlamentsgebäude, Bodendorf

“...there has been, as might be expected with the transition, a fall in coal production, but there seems some confidence that current storage capacities will be sufficient for over the winter months.”

Osvát Keszthelyi’s moustache twitched. “To be expected. Production will return to pre-nationalisation levels shortly.”

Wit Cybulski, Private Secretary to the Deputy Prime Minister, looked up from his notes. “Though it is an open question as to whether we would necessarily want levels to return considering our Net Zero targets.”

Keszthelyi rubbed his knuckles together. “We still need to get the Unions onside for that.” the civil servant laughed.

“Well you’ll forgive me for saying so Deputy Prime Minister but that is your conundrum, not mine.” He gathered up his papers and stood. “Well if there is nothing else?”

Keszthelyi did not hear him. He stared distractedly at his computer.

“Deputy Prime Minister?”

Osvát Keszthelyi pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Actually Wit there is one thing. Have you ever heard of the Mandela Effect?”

Cybulski sat down. “The ‘what’ effect?”

“Mandela. After Nelson Mandela.”

The other man shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him. Is he a footballer?”

Keszthelyi laughed. “Oh my no. He was President of…” he squinted at the computer screen, “Well it doesn’t matter. He was imprisoned for many years by a cruel and barbarous regime which eventually fell. He was freed and went on to become their first democratically elected President.”

“A happy ending then?”

“Perhaps, but an awful lot of people seem convinced that they remember television reports stating that he had perished in prison. And not just him; people recall seeing films that have never been made or plays that have never been written.”

Cybulski fiddled with his cufflinks. “With respect Deputy Prime Minister this sounds like a lot of internet balderdash. There are always groups online who will convince you that your crackpot ideas are actually true. Look at how many VODAIS-6 conspiracies there are; that it was created by the Pantocratorian Secret Service or that it is a ploy by Knootian corporations to transmit advertisements directly into our brains.” He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all. “What makes you bring it up?” A look of concern appeared on his face. “You’re not been working too hard have you?”

Osvát Keszthelyi fumbled with an empty pipe. “Tell me Wit, do you remember a royal birth in 1996?”

Cybulski nodded. “I think so, it was Princess Laodice wasn’t it?”

Keszthelyi shook his head. “No, Laodice wasn’t born until 1999.”

“Well I confess I don’t. That said I was a student at Checław in 1996 so my time was taken up exploring every Oskaran bar I could.” He stood up again. “Well if there’s nothing else.”

“Just one thing Wit, what’s a Q-Notice?”

Cybulski’s eyebrows raised. “A Q-Notice? Well that’s something I’ve not heard for many years.” He retook his chair. “May I ask what has prompted this question?”

Keszthelyi gave him a hard look. “Do you really want to know, Wit?”

“No, perhaps I don’t.”

“Well then, what is it?”

Cybulski thought for a moment. “To issue a Q-Notice is…well it’s not only to forbid any mention of what the Notice covers but it’s also illegal to acknowledge that the Notice itself exists. Does that make sense?”

Keszthelyi leaned back in his chair. “Not really,” he replied, “Give me an example.”

“Well Q-Notices are very much a Cold War relic. There was a great deal of concern that otherwise impeccable young men from the best families were being..seduced by Communism.”

“I see.”

“Well we then and still do share intelligence with a number of foreign agencies and there was a concern that…should the Kundschaftsbureau be seriously compromised then those vital intelligence relationships would be lost.”

Keszthelyi still looked confused.

“Right, you asked for an example. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that it came to our attention that your daughter was an Anahuacan agent…”

The Deputy PM bristled. “My Erzsébet is loyal to her country.”

“It’s just an example. Okay then, let’s say that the Duchess of Starograd was passing information to the Daytans. Had done for years. What do you think they would say in Tarana or New Rome if it was revealed that the Prime Minister’s wife was a communist spy?”

Keszthelyi pondered for a moment. “I would think they would be very reluctant to share information with us again.”

“Precisely. And so it was thought that it might be in the national interest if word of it never got out.”

“A cover-up?”

“A cover-up in the national interest. So going back to the example; let’s say we convince the Duke to retire. He’s bored of politics, ill-health, wants to spend more time with his hunting dogs, whatever. So you would issue a Q-Notice; no one is ever going to speak about the Duchess being a red-sympathiser again. Furthermore no-one is ever going to report the existence of this Q-Notice. And the penalties for doing so…well not every punishment is noted in the Jan Augustan Code if you understand my meaning.”

“I think I do. So when would it expire?”

The other man blinked. “It wouldn’t; that’s the point.”

Keszthelyi rubbed his chin. “Well what about when we’re all dead? Does it matter if the Duke and Duchess have been lying in their family mausoleum for 30 years? And you and I are gone with them?”

Wit thought for a moment. “Well I’ve never actually seen a Q-Notice but from what I’ve been told the signatories to it would all have to have died before it would be made public.”

“I see,” he fumbled with his pipe some more, “So let’s say, again for the sake of argument you understand, that there was a Q-Notice issued in 2002. The Prime Minister then was…”

“That would have been Ludwig Taussig.”

“And he’s dead?”

“Yes. He died about 5 years ago I think.”

“6 actually. So if he had issued any Q-Notices then they ought to have expired with his death.”

“Well yes, unless there were other signatories to it.”

Keszthelyi nodded. “Other signatories. I thought that might be the case.”

Cybulski rose for the third and final time. “Will that be all Deputy Prime Minister?”

Osvát Keszthelyi looked at his computer. “Well we know who else would have signed it. Oh, yes, that will be all Wit, that will be all.”

The other man was almost when the door when Keszthelyi uttered an ominous “For now.”

[Ernestria]

Stadtschloss, Bodendorf

“Peter, please. When your father died I raised you like you were my own son.”

Prince Peter, his hair still wet from perspiration, turned. A look of fire was in his eyes.

“Oh really,” his eyes narrowed, “Is that how fathers treat their adoptive sons? By stealing their birthright from them?”

Beyond the pavilion from which they talked a powerfully built batter forcefully struck a baseball high into the air. In slow motion various players scrambled to catch it. The crowd gasped in unison with one notable exception. Christiana, lowering her sunglasses, caught the sight of someone who the credits would later reveal to be first appearance of one Janet Latsone.

The scene returned to the pavilion. Emperor David, a look of anguish on his face, almost pleaded with his nephew.

“Please, Peter, you must understand...the rules of succession...they’re complicated.”

Peter, still angry, approached so that he was face to face with his uncle. “Funny,” he said with an air of menace, “They were simple enough for grandfather. And for my great-grandmother.”

“Peter”

“You stole from me. God may have taken my father but you took everything else. And you dare stand there and claim you were a good brother to him. You disgust me.”

With that he stormed out. “Peter,” cried the Emperor after him, “Peter!”

The camera then moved to the view from the crowd. In the background, unnoticed, Prince Peter stormed towards the Ernestrian stately home masquerading as an Imperial Palace.

An unnamed extra turned to his neighbour. “What a tremendous blow!” he exclaimed.

Prince Jeremiah, looking not at the pitch but at the pavilion, smiled to himself. “Yes,” he said, “Wasn’t it just?”

And then the credits rolled. Annemarie Lowenstam’s finger hovered over the button to cancel. She looked at the time. It was before 9 and so she was not contractually obliged to start work. Plus her boss was unlikely to be in yet. She pressed to skip the credits and move to the next episode.

Previously on The Sword

“...Princess Christiana’s private predilections are between her and God, but as Presiding Bishop I must tell your Majesty that…”

“That doesn’t appear to be the Repair Costings, does it Fraulein Lowenstam?”

“Ah!” Annemarie jumped, her PeacockPhone clattering to the floor. She scrambled for it. “Your Highness,” she said to her chair, “I…you…you startled me.”

Ludwig Mohyła, 9th Prince of Kocobędz and Obersthofmeister of the Court, raised an eyebrow. “I interrupted you whilst you should have been more gainfully occupied with the task for which you receive a salary.” He motioned towards the now silent phone. “What were you watching that it distracted you from the subject of your employment?”

“Oh, er, nothing Your Highness.”

“It didn’t look like nothing, nor did it sound it.”

Lowenstam looked sheepish. “The Sword Your Highness, have you seen it?”

The Prince Kocobędz straightened at the notion. “Certainly not,” he replied, “It is gutter entertainment of the worst sort. The crowned heads of Transmontana ought to be recipients of the honour and respect due to their positions; not fictionalized for the tawdry entertainment of their inferiors.”

The Obersthofmeister, an out-and-out inegalitarian, turned on his heel and went into his office. He sat behind his large leather-topped desk and, in the silence of the room, sighed to himself. “Things,” he said, “Have changed.” The Prince had no natural affection for the Excalbians, who he considered troublingly liberal and suspiciously credobaptist, but once the rot set in then, like an infection, it would spread. “What’s next,” he asked the empty room, “The Emperor of Pantocratoria as a POP! figure?” It was all much too much.

Once upon a time the greatest families in the land vied for a position at court and one of its great offices. Now he was Obersthofmeister largely because no one else wanted the job. He looked across the room to the squinting portrait of the first Prince of Kocobędz, Grand Elector of the Oskaran Empire, and shook his head despondently. He then went on to look through the mountain of emails he received as part of the Kanzleidirektion; mostly heating and food bills. At some point Annemarie Lowenstam brought him coffee. He did not feel the need to recognise or acknowledge this.

At half 9 the intercom buzzed. Turning in his chair he opened a leather-bound journal embossed with the Royal Coat of arms and turned the pages until he found the correct day.

“09h30 - Herr Schoenauer. Discuss repairs to the Valdrician Tapestries in the Siegespalast.”

The Obersthofmeister nodded. He pressed the button; “Send him in.” At that moment he was distracted by a sudden email which pinged into his inbox. “Please come in,” said the Prince as the door opened; motioning without looking at the chair, “I shan’t keep you a moment.”

The email was a request from a national newspaper, couched in the most courtly of language, for an update on His Majesty’s health. Kocobędz deleted it instantly. “Damn impertinence. My apologies Herr…..” he turned to look at his nine thirty appointment, “You’re not Herr Schoenauer.”

“No,” said Osvát Keszthelyi, “Nor am I here about your tapestries.”

The Prince Kocobędz raised a single imperious eyebrow. “May I ask what happened to my appointment with Herr Schoenauer?”

“Well,” said the Deputy Prime Minister leaning back in his chair, “It would appear, Your Highness, that Herr Schoenauer is a lifelong Socialist voter; a fact he attributes to his grandfather who worked in the coal mines at Sándorháza. And you’ll forgive me for saying so Your Highness but your diary appears to be so unfeasibly full that it seemed almost impossible to meet with you.”

“Unless someone of a kindly disposition let you take their place.”

“Precisely sir.”

The Obersthofmeister straightened a pen that had fallen out of alignment on his desk. “And yet no one seems to have challenged your entry.”

“Well,” said Keszthelyi, “I am the Deputy Prime Minister. I have every right to be here.”

“So it would appear. Well I regret to inform you Herr Keszthelyi that if you have come to meet with the King then that is quite impossible. His Majesty’s doctors have forbidden any visitors so I am afraid your visit has been in vain.”

Osvát Keszthelyi smiled. “But I wasn’t here to see the King,” he said with a condescending tone, “It was you I wanted to see Your Highness.”

The Obersthofmeister blinked. “Me?” he asked, “Whatever for?”

Keszthelyi, still smiling, scooped down in his chair to fetch the briefcase at this side. He opened it and, with a thud, dropped a large bound document onto the Prince’s desk.

The Obersthofmeister gave a quizzical look. “And what is this?”

Keszthelyi raised his eyebrows. “I am surprised you don’t recognise it,” he said after a moment, “It is last financial year’s civil list; the spending of the entire Court.”

“Really Herr Keszthelyi if you had any queries regarding that we have staff available to respond to these.”

“Ahh,” said Keszthelyi raising a finger, “But I didn’t want to ask the staff Your Highness. I wanted to ask you.”

Kocobędz shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure what you could possibly wish to query,” he said, “Expenses were in line with projected costs and was in keeping with projected expenditure from previous years.

Osvát Keszthelyi, with a theatrical air, opened the budget and rummaged through its pages. “My query,” he said after a moment, “Was with regards to the section marked ‘Sundries’.”

The Obersthofmeister gave an exasperated look. “What about the sundries?”

The Deputy Prime Minister ran his finger down the page. “This figure comes to several million marks.”

“So it does. Your point is?”

Osvát Keszthelyi looked up from the ledger. “This is not an inconsiderable sum. I think the public have a right to know.”

“The public?” the Prince choked, “The public, sir, should know what’s good for them.”

“What are these payments?”

“They are as the title states, Herr Keszthelyi, sundries. Sundries are sundries. If you have come down here to waste my time…”

“Do you not think that a black hole of several million marks deserves more of an explanation that just ‘sundries’ Your Highness?”

“‘Black hole?’” the Prince sniffed indignantly, “Does His Grace know you’re here?”

Keszthelyi leaned back in his chair again. “If by that you mean the Prime Minister then would it matter if he didn’t?”

“I should think it would,” replied the Prince, “I think he might like to know if his deputy were here, in the Royal Palace, throwing unwarranted accusations around.”

“The Duke of Starograd is my partner in the coalition, he is not my superior. If he is unhappy with my being here then he is at liberty to dismiss me…”

“Well I should say that…”

“Just as I am at liberty to bring the government down and usher in early elections.”

The Prince narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not sure if Your Highness follows the polls as closely as I am required to but they seem to suggest that we’ll keep our vote share, which is more than I can say for the Duke’s party.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Well you’ll just have to see,” he picked up the ledger again, “One of the more interesting aspects of this budget,” he tapped it with a finger, “Are the payments of invoices.”

“I fail to see how that is a controversial subject.”

“Oh normally it isn’t when the companies are ones that you would expect,” said the other man, “But when one of them is Kaltenbrunner and Razvigorov.”

A moment of terrible realisation dawned in the Prince’s eyes.

“Do you know,” continued Keszthelyi, “Who they are?”

The Prince absent-mindedly scratched his ear. “No,” he lied, “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I think you do,” said Keszthelyi looking more and more like a cat that had cornered a mouse, “They’re currency brokers.

So you see, Your Highness, what we have here are a set of financial statements in which it would appear that not only are several million marks unaccounted for but that they also seem to have been transmitted overseas.

Would you not say, sir, that this is slightly curious?”

The Obersthofmeister leaned back in his chair. “May I offer you some advice Herr Keszthelyi?”

“You may, on one condition.”

“Which is?”

Osvát Keszthelyi leaned forward and put both hands on the edge of the desk. “I have, since the start of our conversation, afforded you the courtesy your title and your position demands. I would expect, Your Highness, no less from you.”

The Prince shot a look. “Very well, Deputy Prime Minister. You may think that your investigations may be of some merit to you with the voting public. I would submit to you that you are incorrect; the average man on the street does not care about the minutiae of his social betters; he is not interested in where he buys his shoes or with whom he dines. What he does care about is the long continuity of his country and its institutions. What he cares about is his King acting as a sovereign and not as his friend. And, with the common sense and ordinary decency of the working man, he accepts that there are certain things which must be kept from him if the monarchy and the country are to endure. Some say that light is a disinfectant, I would put it to you that it also, over time, burns the fabric and bleaches out what made it unique and distinctive.

If, Deputy Prime Minister, you have recourse to think that there is some impropriety with His Majesty’s accounts then I suggest you direct these, with the appropriate evidence, to the relevant authorities. Now if you have nothing else then I shall have to ask you to leave.”

Osvát Keszthelyi looked at him in silence for a few moments. “So, there is nothing you can say to this?” He tapped the ledger again.

“None whatsoever. If you wish to put your queries in writing then I am sure some time may be found in the coming few months to prepare an appropriate response.”

“I see.” Osvát Keszthelyi stood up. “Well thank you for your time Your Highness. It has been illuminating; though I am not sure whether you would approve of that.”

“Good day Deputy Prime Minister, I shan't detain you any longer from your urgent work nationalizing the undergarment industry or the like.”

Osvát Keszthelyi bowed and made his way out of the office without another word. The Obersthofmeister wanted to curse his impertinence but something about the other man’s queries sounded a mental alarm that he had long forgotten existed. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “It’s me. We may have a situation…”

[Ernestria]

The Silbersaal of the Bodendorfer Musikverein

“Olim lacus colueram,” sang the tenor, “Olim pulcher extiteram, dum cignus ego fueram.” Osvát Keszthelyi shifted in his chair and pretended to adjust his cufflink. In reality he glanced at his wrist watch.

He had no sooner looked at the time than he felt an elbow in his ribs.

“Behave,” hissed Vanda Keszthelyi, her eyes fixed on the performance, “You don’t want to be thought of as uncultured.” Osvát leaned towards her slightly.

“There’s culture,” he whispered, “And then there’s this nonsense. When’s the interval?”

“In a minute, now look interested.” She elbowed him again for good measure. Eventually the song about the roasted swan ended and the tenor took a bow. Osvát gave a thunderous applause that he in no way felt was justified as the choir and the rest of the orchestra left the stage. Electric lights dazzled the silver gilding as the previously hushed audience rose from their seats and broke into conversation.

Osvát stood up. “What a load of old…” he began to mutter. The shiny head and round glasses suddenly emerged from the row behind.

“Well well,” said Tobias Voit, political editor of the Abend Chronik, “Deputy Prime Minister, I didn’t know you were a Carmina Burana fan.”

Osvát smiled uneasily. “Oh but of course,” he said with a fixed smile, “I can’t get enough of it. Or should I say ‘en-Orff’?” Frau Keszthelyi and the journalist declined the invitation to laugh at this.

“The production has been very well received,” continued Voit, “I understand there are talks for it to tour Excalbia.”

“No doubt,” said Vanda, “To try and mend fences now that Das Schwert is the number one streamed show across the entire region. Wouldn’t you say so dear?”

Osvát stood up. “You might very well think that,” he said after a moment. “But I couldn’t possibly comment. Now if you excuse me, I simply must buy an ice-cream.” He slipped down the row and made his way into the crowded foyer. He looked around helplessly.

A figure suddenly appeared. “Lavatories are the second door on the left past the statue of the half-naked lady.” Keszthelyi jumped. “Dammit Hristov,” exclaimed the Socialist Leader, “I wish you wouldn’t do that. And it’s not a naked woman, it’s a Muse.”

Zhivko Hristov, Keszthelyi’s Evidenzbureau Protection Officer, laughed. “If you say so. You enjoying the performance then sir?”

Osvát scowled. “Put it this way Hristov,” he muttered, “There’s a report on potholes in my constituency that I’d rather be reading.”

Hristov chuckled again. “That bad?”

Keszthelyi weaved his way through the crowd until he found the suitably appointed room to relieve himself. When he emerged he noticed a man on the main desk looking around. When he caught the Deputy Prime Minister’s eye he beckoned him over. The crowd now was diminshed as the audience started to return to their chairs or, alternatively, fled into the night.

“Beg pardon sir,” said the bookish man at the main desk, “A telephone call for you.”

Keszthelyi scowled again. “What? Here?”

The man nodded. “Yes sir, he said it was urgent.” He motioned towards the bank of largely redundant public telephones that were arrayed on the far wall. “Third on the left sir.”

Still scowling, Osvát straightened his bowtie and made his way to the telephone. From the corner of his eye he could see Hristov watching from next to the table where they were selling programmes.

He picked up the telephone. “Keszthelyi,” he barked.

“Good evening Deputy Prime Minister,” said the voice. It was a man’s voice, clipped and precise. German. It spoke of an expensive education. “Are you enjoying the performance? I hear the Tempus est iocundum is particularly good.”

“Who is this?”

The voice on the telephone laughed. “My name, Deputy Prime Minister, is unimportant.” Osvát’s eyes widened. He motioned towards Hristov who, with a flash of alarm on his face, started to cross the foyer.

The voice continued. “I imagine you know why I’m calling.”

Hristov appeared. One hand covering the receiver, Keszthelyi motioned towards the telephone. “Take the number down,” he said in as quiet a voice as the emptying foyer allowed. He took his hand off the telephone. “Well you have me at a disadvantage,” he said more loudly, “Because I don’t. If you’re one of those colliery owners who continue to dispute the price of your pit then I’m afraid I can’t help you. You’d have to speak to the Nationale Kohlebehörde.”

The voice on the telephone gave a conceited laugh. “Oh goodness me no, Deputy Prime Minister, I’m not calling about some dirty mine.” He laughed again. “I’m telephoning regarding your recent call on the Obersthofmeister.”

Keszthelyi swallowed. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I was wondering when one of you would call.”

“Well,” said the voice, “Clearly we do not aim to disappoint. But needless to say, Herr Keszthelyi, that there are groups and organizations that go far beyond the petty realm of politics that you inhabit.” The jovial tone fell like a stone into a pond. “There are matters which do not concern you and that you would be well advised to keep clear of.”

“Is that a threat?”

The voice gave a mirthless laugh. “It is a word of advice from a friendly stranger, Deputy Prime Minister, that there will be consequences if you continue down this path. Whether you choose the path of wisdom or not is entirely up to you; but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Keszthelyi was silent for a moment. “Is he dead?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play games with me,” snapped Keszthelyi, “You know exactly what I mean.”

The voice on the telephone gave an angry sigh. “What you fail to realise, you sniveling pen-pusher, is the altar of the nation has to be continually replenished by sacrifice. Most of that sacrifice is willing from people, sir, who love their country and their King. But other sacrifices are of a less consenting nature. That is unfortunate but it is also the way of such things and you risk besmirching the righteous sacrifices of the brave by highlighting those that were not voluntary.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No,” snapped the voice, “And nor will I answer the question. The past, Herr Keszthelyi, is dead and buried; which I think is an admirable metaphor for you if you continue to delve into matters that are beyond your remit.”

Keszthelyi glanced at Hristov who nodded, holding up a piece of paper with the telephone number.

“Oh,” continued the voice, “If you’re wondering about the number; in the third floor of the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries there is a broom closet with an old telephone connection. The number will be traced back there. You can check the CCTV by all means but you won’t find anything. Enjoy the rest of the performance, Deputy Prime Minister.” The line went dead.

“Who was that,” Hristov asked.

“Someone,” replied Keszthelyi, “Whose swan is cooked.”

“I thought it was the goose that was cooked.”

“That’s the joke, Hristov, you’ve ruined it.”

[Ernestria]

Chasa Guglielmo, Kohlfeld, Bodendorf

No one ever came to Chasa Guglielmo for the food. Down the hill from the Parliament Building and the colossal statue of Ernest I Soter (erected, it was said, lest the parliamentarians lose sight of the fact that Ernestria was [in fact] a family concern) were the gridiron streets of the Kohlfeld Quarter. It was here, nestled between tiny shops that sold gloves and ladies’ fans which never appeared to have customers but which never seemed to go out of business, was Bodendorf’s attempt at an Italian restaurant where pizzas came like pie lids and the lasagna had added pork knuckle. Despite the unappetising food the restaurant was rarely empty, for in its secluded booths conversations could take place away from prying eyes and attentive ears.

Ghaaliya al-Ben moved her poached fish around her plate. She was what was once called a cub reporter at the Neues Bodendorfer Tagblatt. Her family were originally from Numia and whilst attitudes in the Kingdom had progressed beyond outright discrimination she had found herself excluded from the cozy world of lobby briefings and the closed networks between journalists and politicians who often went to the same school. She realised, of course, that Osvát Keszthelyi only spoke to her out of a sense of pity. That ought to make her angry and resentful, but ultimately a scoop was a scoop.

The Deputy Prime Minister was coming to an end. “And that,” he said, dabbing a napkin to his mouth as he did so, “Was when I received the call at the Silbersaal.”

al-Ben tried to hide a look that was both skeptical and alarmed. “But you didn’t take their threats seriously,” she began, “Considering you’re talking to me now?” She looked down at her meal and tried to hide her disappointment. She had accepted the invitation to dine as the start of a promising story. What Keszthelyi had told her appeared to be nothing more than a twenty-year old missing person story.

“Of course not,” replied the Deputy PM with a snort, “Muffled conversations from broom closets? This is real life, not Das Schwert. Half hidden threats are the resort of amateurs, those who have the power to do something just act.”

Ghaaliya took a sip of the room-temperature tap water that had been provided, without much grace, by the waiter. “I admit,” she said after a moment, “That there might be something to do. Someone is clearly trying to hide something. But I work on the politics desk and this all sounds a bit too much like royal gossip.”

Keszthelyi tapped the table with his finger. “But the money, Fraulein, the money. The Court likes to pretend that it is above politics, except when there is a policy they don’t like, but the fact is that they receive a stipend from general taxation. I may be a loyal subject but my devotion to the institution does not mean I don’t think that we have a right to question where public funds are spent, especially when those funds appear to be going overseas.”

al-Ben glanced at her notes. “That is strange,” she said, “But there’s nothing illegal here. Governments of every stripe, including yours Herr Keszthelyi, have voted through the Civil List without much scrutiny. If the Court asks for X millions and Parliament votes for it then isn’t that an issue for Parliament? After all, you should have been the one asking the questions. You can’t expect the newspapers to do your job for you.”

Osvát said nothing but stared down at the half-drunk glass of passable Riesling on the table before him. “You have your doubts,” he said in a quiet voice. It was not a question.

“It’s just…” she began but trailed off. “I mean, I think I have two concerns about the story.”

Keszthelyi raised an eyebrow. “Only two?” he asked in a sardonic voice.

“First, Prince Cyrille is Regent for now but we both know that Prince Albert has friends in the Pairshaus. The Prince is no friend to the Socialist Party and would mean to destroy it as a political force if he was given the power to do so.”

Osvát nodded. “So, get a low blow in now? You’re clever Fraulein so I will not insult your intelligence to say that the idea had not crossed my mind.”

“And secondly,” she paused and moved her food around the plate one last time, “I just think what Lord Brennnesselbett,” the Neues Bodendorfer Tagblatt’s proprietor, “Would say. What if you’re right, and the prince is alive, but what if something terrible has happened to him? What if he’s a vegetable or in a psychiatric unit? I am not sure how enthusiastic His Lordship would be for a lengthy and expensive investigation which results in something that decency demands cannot be published.”

Keszthelyi nodded. “I thought you might say that,” he said, “You’re after an insurance policy. I know the rules Miss al-Ben.” He reached for his jacket and, in that moment, Ghaaliya thought that he might be leaving. Instead he pulled out a thick envelope and held it in his hand.

“Tell me, Miss al-Ben,” he said, “Do you happen to recall the curious case of Captain Kost?”

Ghaaliya thought for a moment, her forehead furrowed. “Wasn’t he the soldier who got killed in an accident?”

Keszthelyi’s smile was devoid of warmth. “That’s the official story, the precise details are a little more complicated.”

He leant back in his chair and placed the envelope on the table before him. “Before I begin know this; Felicjan Kost was a traitor. To his men, to the oath he swore as an army officer and to his country. These facts are incontrovertible. However I am also of the opinion that even traitors deserve due process.”

He pushed his plate away and placed his folded hands upon the table in front of him. “You remember, of course, the Sons of Casimir? They were an Oskaran nationalist group that advocated for the unification of their brethren in Lewocza with the motherland. They were encouraged by the despicable government of then Prime Minister Jaruzelski.” He pulled a face at the name of the Oskaran politician.

Ghaaliya tapped her pen against her notepad. “Yes,” she said with a nod, “I remember them. They attacked isolated military outposts and gendarmerie patrols. I seem to recall that there was a raid on their headquarters in the town of Gołkojce which crippled their operations. You don’t hear much of them anymore.”

The Deputy Prime Minister took out his pipe and filled it from a pouch. “They still exist,” he said in a matter of fact voice, “But they are a shadow of what they once were.” He passed across the envelope.

al-Ben nodded. “So Kost was the source of the information?” Keszthelyi, lighting his pipe, nodded. “So he was a double-agent?”

The other man shook his head. “In a manner of speaking. What do you remember about him?”

al-Ben thought for a moment. “There was a mix-up,” she eventually said, “At the time we were courting the Hoosier Alliance.” A look of distaste washed across Keszthelyi’s face. She ignored it. “He was supposed to be on a flight to Waag-Neustadtl but in the confusion he boarded a flight bound for the Alliance.”

“Yes,” said Osvát, “And the Hoosiers, who are prone to shooting first and asking questions never, killed him on sight, thinking he was a spy. A regrettable incident, so we were told.”

Ghaaliya reached across and took the envelope. “So what really happened?”

There was a sudden, hard look on the politician’s face. “I believe the sanitized term is ‘extraordinary rendition’.” He puffed on his pipe. “Felicjan Kost, for want of a better term, was tortured to death. In his last, agonising moments he revealed the location of the Gołkojce cell to his Hoosier torturers who, in turn, passed it to the Kundschaftsbureau.”

al-Ben nodded. She began to open the envelope.

“I should warn you,” said Keszthelyi, “It is not for the faint-hearted.”

There was a sudden look on Ghaaliya’s face. “It can be no worse than what I saw in Numia before we fled.” She said nothing further and Keszthelyi did not press her.

She opened the envelope and looked through the contents. A wave of nausea overcame her but she kept on looking. There was a silence between them broken only by the sounds of the restaurant around them. Eventually she spoke.

“You knew about this?” she asked, an undercurrent of rage and disgust in her voice.

“No,” he replied, “No I knew nothing. ‘Plausible deniability’; only Hurgoi and his cronies knew the precise details. We were just told that it came from covert sources and it was left at that. The Duke would never question the brave officers and men of military intelligence.”

She believed him, at least for now. “So how did you find out?”

Keszthelyi re-lit his pipe. “Generalmajor Tiberiu Hurgoi made two mistakes. First, and most critical, was that he assumed something like ‘this’ would stay hidden forever. But conspiracies always fall apart in time.”

“And the second?”

“His evidence was flawed. In Captain Kost he thought he had found the perfect victim; an orphan, an only child. His only relative a cousin who, the Generalmajor thought, would not notice the inconsistencies in his version of events. In short he thought he had found a man who he could vanish and no one would notice his passing.”

He leaned forward. “But that cousin whom he dismissed as a bit-player turned out to be more persistent than he anticipated. She has spent the last five years trying to find out what happened to him only to be pushed off at every obstacle. In the end she came to me and the rest, as they say, is history.”

al-Ben’s eyes widened. “This,” she stopped, “This is huge. There were rumours but I didn’t realise that it went this far. This could…” She was cut off as Osvát suddenly, and with a turn of speed impressive for a man of his age, bolted out of his chair and snatched the documents from her grasp.

“This,” he said, “Is the insurance policy.” He put the documents back into the envelope and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. “If you’re right and there is nothing to this ‘missing prince’ story then I will give you everything you want and that is in my power to provide regarding Captain Kost. You have my word on that”

Ghaaliya scowled. “How do I know I can trust you?” she asked in a suspicious voice.

Keszthelyi sat down. “You can’t,” he said with a smile, “But that, my dear, is political journalism I am afraid. The case of Captain Kost is reproachable. Disgusting even. However it is also useful to me. There will be a time when the public knowledge of it will be advantageous to me, however now is not that time. Unless, of course, you find only the shadow of a prince, in which case you can have it. I am sure Lord Brennnesselbett will understand that. He has, after all, been playing this game longer than any of us.”

al-Ben said nothing for a few moments. She had the optimism of an immigrant for her adopted country. She hated the idea that powerful men could murder with impunity for the sake of narrow political advantage. She thought that she had left that behind when her family had fled Numia; the idea of it being here in Ernestria sickened her. But what else could she do?

“Fine,” she said, defensively folding her arms, “Fine, we will play it your way.”

Keszthelyi smiled. “I had every confidence, Fraulein, that we could reach an understanding.”

[Providencia y San Andres]

Secretaría del Estado de Relaciones Exteriores

Being Secretary of State for Foreign Relations was a prestigious, though usually quiet portfolio. Providencia was neither a major power nor a source of consternation for those powers. It was rare that Don Héctor Hugo de Benavides Martinez had more than ceremonial events and internal political meetings on his agenda, but today he had a meeting with both the Ambassador of the Confederation of Sovereign States and His Excalbian Imperial Majesty's Ambassador to the Royal Court. It was even rarer that they were coming together, and rarer yet that they were coming to deliver what his staff told him was a demarche. Why a formal lecture from a foreign government had a French name was lost on the Secretary.

Don Héctor’s musings were interrupted when his secretary ushered in the two ambassadors, each accompanied by a member of their staff and the senior official of the Secretariat responsible for relations with their country.

The Secretary rose and offered his hand to each ambassador. “Bienvenidos. Welcome. Please have a seat.”

The Excalbian Ambassador, Ricards Vaislevs, bowed slightly, then introduced his political counselor. The Confederal Ambassador, Lilith Park, introduced her consul, then nodded to her Excalbian counterpart and they both sat down.

“Your Excellency,” Ambassador Park said, “we are here to protest the shocking detention of Matthew Williams, an accredited journalist and a citizen of the Confederation.”

The Secretary drew in a breath. He looked from Park to Vaislevs. The Excalbian folded his hands. “And Mr. Williams is an employee of the Landing News Corporation, an Excalbian media company. So, though we lack a direct consular interest, we are concerned about the detention of a journalist without charges. Especially following the Western Atlantic Transparency Project's allegations about the death of Mr. Aponte Villalobos.”

The Secretary leaned back and spread his hands. “Sr. Aponte Villalobos’ death was a tragedy, but a thorough investigation by the Secretary of Public Security had debunked those… conspiracy theories.” He leaned back. “Unfortunately, I do not have the details of Mr. Williams’ detention, but as your excellencies know, the police may detain suspects, witnesses and persons of interest for up to 48 hours for investigative purposes. However, I will certainly look into this situation.”

Park frowned and leaned forward, disabusing the Secretary of any hope this would be a brief meeting.

After the two ambassadors had left, Don Héctor returned to his desk and picked up the phone. “I need to speak with Lic. Guzmán de Gortari,” he said referring to the Minister of Governance, the Secretary of Public Security's superior and one of the three most powerful members of the Cabinet.

Moments later, after the Minister had picked up the phone, Don Héctor said, “Nando, this is Teto. What's going on with this foreign journalist from the Confederation? I just had two ambassadors in my office pitching a fit and making vague threats about special commissions and reviewing trade and visa policies.”

After listening for a few minutes, the Secretary said, “I don't care, Nando, that's not my business. But please just cut the guy loose. Follow him. Tap him, if you must, but if you hold him, you invite more scrutiny than I think any of us want.”

He paused again. “Good. I'll send word to the ambassadors. Thank you, Nando.” The Secretary hung up and muttered, “Tonto.”

[Soveriegn States]

A Cafe in La Providencia

Matt Williams rubbed the stubble on his chin. Two days in the local jail had kept him from his usual grooming habits, but that was the least of his concerns. The C.S.S. Consul, a Ms. Bruton, had urged him in no uncertain terms to leave Providencia.

It had taken the direct intervention of the Confederal Ambassador and her Excalbian counterpart - on the explicit instructions of higher ups in Jefferson and Citadel Excalbia - the Consul had said, to secure his release and there would be no second such intervention.

He also considered it no coincidence that men had been not so discretely following him since his release. For all these reasons, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least considering a swift departure from the islands.

However, he felt a debt to his fellow journalist, who had died in pursuit of this story. He hadn’t know Mario well, but the Providencian had trusted him enough to email him all his research and leads before he died.

Clearly, Matt reasoned, there was something going on that someone - or several someones - at a high level did not want to come to light. It was easy to assume it was simple money laundering , but it was so common here and so expected that he couldn’t believe anyone would risk greater attention from the regional powers by actually killing someone over it.

No, money laundering was only the tip of the iceberg here. The cover up for a much bigger secret. A secret worth killing for.

[Ernestria]

Druckereiplatz (Headquarters of Neues Bodendorfer Tagblatt) Bodendorf

Ghaaliya al-Ben’s hands were wet with what could only be described as ‘terror sweat’. She wiped them nervously on her pants.
Karolina Müntefering, the first female editor in the newspaper’s history, noticed this. “Don’t worry,” she said with a smile, “He’s not as fearsome as his reputation.” She did not sound convinced by this.
The door to the opulent office of the proprietor was suddenly flung open. A short stout man of some 70 years, dressed in white tie, exploded into the room.

“This had better be good Müntefering,” he bellowed by way of introduction, “I am supposed to be at the opera tonight.” Both women leapt to their feet.
The editor swallowed hard. “We would not have disturbed your Lordship were it not otherwise.”
Lord Brennnesselbett rounded his leather-topped oak desk and glowered al-Ben. “Who are you?” he demanded as he sat down.

Ghaaliya had a hollow feeling in her stomach but, silently steeling herself, she replied in as bold a voice as she could muster. “Ghaaliya al-Ben, your Lordship, I work on the politics desk.”
The proprietor regarded her for a moment. “Yes,” he replied, “The Kartibian.”

“Numian sir.”

“Don’t” he growled, “Correct me.” With a dismissive wave he signaled that Müntefering and al-Ben should sit. He leaned across to an ornately decorated wooden box and, opening it, took out a large cigar. Ghaaliya was not about to remind him that this was a no-smoking building.

He lit it and, blowing smoke into the face of the editor (who batted it away with a cough), placed it into a large crystal ashtray on his table.
“Well go on then,” he snapped, “Get on with it. What is so important about the Civil List that it cannot wait until Monday?”

Karolina inhaled deeply. “Well…” The cigar in the ashtray burnt away to ashes as the editor explained everything; the 1996 birth, the Q-Notice, the Silbersaal call, Captain Kost. All of it. Brennnesselbett said nothing but fixed his eyes firmly upon the ornate pen holder that had been a personal gift from Prince Jakob.

“...And that’s about everything.”

Brennnesselbett fiddled with a mother-of-pearl cufflink. “I had hoped,” he said in a quiet voice, “That I might upgrade my title from Baron to Viscount.” He looked up at the two women. “I can’t see that happening now.”

“With respect,” began al-Ben, “This is all in the best interest of the monarchy.”

“Is it?” he snapped, “And how do you reach that conclusion?”

“It will come out eventually,” she replied, “And perhaps at the worst possible moment.”

The proprietor rubbed his chin. “I don’t know about this Müntefering,” he said, “I’m not sure how much our readers will care about a traitor. They are likely to say that he got what was coming to him.”

Karolina nodded. “They might Your Lordship,” she conceded, “But what will happen if we ignore this? What if a certain clique of powerful men feel emboldened by this? Where exactly will it end?”
Brennnesselbett said nothing but glanced up, behind the two women, at the portrait on the far wall. It was of his father, the previous Lord Brennnesselbett. “No,” he said to the portrait, “This all sounds like smoke and mirrors.”

A sudden thought came to al-Ben. “There is a way to prove this,” she said in an animated voice, “To prove whether Keszthelyi is chasing ghosts.” Lord Brennesselbett looked at her. “Please Your Lordship,” she continued, “When did your father die?”

“My father? What the devil has that got to do with anything?”

“Please sir, when was it.”

Lord Brennesselbett thought for a moment. “It would have been ‘97.”

“Please Your Lordship, then it would have been you who received the Q-Notice.”

There was the look of a cornered animal in the Proprietor’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he barked, “And besides, it was a long time ago, I can hardly be expected to remember those sorts of details.”

al-Ben knew he was lying. She held out her hand. “Please sir,” she said, her brown eyes fixed on his, “May we see it.”

“The damn impertinence, I should…” but the trailed off, the fight was gone from his eyes. On his waistcoat was a pocket watch. He took it and opened it revealing not a watch (he had a PeacockPhone if he wanted to know the time) but a small silver desk key. Wordlessly he opened the drawer to his desk and rummaged for a few moments.

“Here,” he said, “I remembered it instantly.” He passed a small piece of paper that had started to yellow with age. Ghaaliya could not hide her disappointment with how mundane it looked:

The following order is made in accordance with the Coercion Act 1873 s4 which states that His Majesty in Council has the power to enact such additional regulations as may be required to maintain the peaceable union and territorial integrity of the kingdom

Q-Notice

By Command of the King the Prime Minister is directed to instruct the following:

-That no mention henceforth shall be made of the child born 27 March 1996
-Public dissemination of this Notice is forbidden

The penalties for disobeyal with this Notice will be circulated separately.

Signed,

REDACTED
REDACTED
REDACTED
REDACTED
Ludwig Taussig- Prime Minster

Dated the 20th September Year of Our Lord 2002

GOD SAVE THE KING

“So,” said Müntefering, “It’s true.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” blustered the Lord, “The Q-Notice is true, but I imagine you know that already, but there is no other evidence. If I am to wontly flout the law I will need something more substantial.”

al-Ben nodded. “We went to Kaltenbrunner and Razvigorov,” she said by way of reply, “And spoke to the Managing Director Herr Kuntz.”

“Kuntz,” exclaimed Brennesselbett, “Kuntz? I have known him since we went to Käppelsbach together. No, there is no way he would be involved with something underhand. He is the model of discretion.”

“The money is going to Providencia,” replied the editor in a matter-of-fact voice.

“What?” he exclaimed again, “Nonsense, he would never have told you that, there is no way he would betray the confidentiality of so distinguished a client. Why old Benedict is the very model of respectability, a gentleman, a man of firm moral character, he…”

al-Ben spoke next. “We had evidence that he cheated on his wife with his children’s governess. We threated to publish it if he didn’t tell us.”

“He’s a snake of a man,” continued Brennesselbett without missing a beat, “A complete weasel. I've never liked him.”

“I need to go to La Providencia,” continued al-Ben, “To get to the bottom of this.”

Lord Brennesselbett scowled. “This is decent, patriotic newspaper,” he replied, “I am not sure whether it would be without this organisation’s ethos to investigate something that might embarrass Their Majesties. No, I think it would be wiser if…”

“I hear,” said Karolina, “That Arbeiter-Zeitung might also have the story.”

“What? Those amateurs? I want you on the first flight Ben, do you hear me?”

“Yes Your Lordship,” the two women stood, “I’ll get on it right away.”

[Soveriegn States]

La Providencia

While being followed, even blatantly so, made normal investigative work impossible, Matt was well-versed in the technological alternatives. Although he was certain that the Probidencian authorities were also tracking his online activities, the same technology that opened that door provided tools to evade the tracking. So, after a few passes through anonymous routers and virtual private networks, and a dip into a peer-to-peer encrypted messenger, he finally made contact with one of the late Mario's sources who was willing to meet him.

The next day, Matt booked a private tour of Isla Hermosa on a small tour boat. The plainclothes officers trailing him followed him to the capital's docks and watched him board the boat. They continued to watch until a police boat arrived to follow the tour boat as it motored to the south. Then, the plainclothes officers left.

Several minutes later, a private boat left the berth beside the tour boat’s and headed towards the open waters to the east. There, Matt, who had slid over the railing of the tour boat and onto the luxury motorboat, climbed up from below deck. “Well, that was an experience,” he said.

Arturo Tomas Garza Mendoza turned from seat at the boat's wheel to look at the journalist. “If you had been more careful, such machinations would not have been needed.”

Matt drew in a breath. “I suppose. But thank you for talking with me in any case.” The Confederal took a seat beside the casually dressed Providencian. He didn't ask the obvious question of why. He knew why. At least in part. According to Mario's notes, whatever was going on was flowing through Grupo Confianza’s Banco de Inversiones, which was closely tied to the Carvajal and Guzman families, who in turn were closely tied to the ruling Christian Democrats. Sr. Garza Mendoza, though a mid-level functionary in the Instituto Real de la Administración del Sistema Financiero, had family ties, if somewhat distant, to the de Garzas of San Andres, who owned the rival Grupo San Andres and its banks. He also has family ties to the opposition Movimiento por la Democracia, known as the MPD, through the Mendozas.

“So,” Matt said, “you said you had information about the suspicious money flows Mario was following?”

“Yes,” Garza said, “Mr. Aponte knew me through certain… mutual political acquittances. And, we shared a desire to see an end to corruption. Money laundering has made many rich in La Provencia, but it has also nurtured a cancer in our state, and distorted our economic development.” He sighed. “At first, this seemed to be the kind of high-level corruption that could galvanize support for change.” He paused. “Money coming in from anonymously from abroad - though I was able to trace it to Ernestria through the bank routing numbers - passing through the hands of someone in the Corte Real itself and into numbered accounts in Banco de Inversiones.”

Matt nodded. “But Mario's notes indicate the money didn't go back out anywhere…”

“Exactly,” Garza said, “the point of money laundering is to secretly send money in and through investment, sales or trade profits take it back out. But that was not the case here. So, Aponte thought it might be bribery. Yet, there was no evidence anyone was keeping any of the money. Everything that came in went into the numbered accounts. All held, as best we could tell, by expatriate Ernestines or others from that part of the world, residing here. That was most unusual. But more unusual was the fact that as soon as it became clear someone was looking at these transfers, inquiries started coming from the Minister of Governance himself demanding to know who was ‘snooping’ into these private accounts. And it seemed that Minister Guzmán de Gortari and Don Arturo, the Count of Isla Hermosa and the King's Mayordomo Mayor, were holding private meetings about this.” Garza looked down. “Then, Aponte met his… accident.”

“That's quite a lot to take in,” Matt said. “And very… serious allegations. Do you have any proof?”

Garza reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a small USB drive. He offered it to the journalist. “This contains copies of wire transfers, internal transfers authorized by the Corte Real, account transactions, and emails given me by… a friend in the Minister's office.”

Matt took the drive and studied it. It seemed so small, yet could potentially be very powerful.

[Saxmere]

Joint post with Ernestria.

Weissenhof, Vereinigtes Königreich Providencia und Sankt Andreas

She had always preferred to be outdoors, away from the house with the constant smell of disinfectant and awful memories that hung in every room like a thick fug. Outside she could hear the birds and, far below the terraced gardens, the ever present sound of the waves; as regular and dependable as a clock.

She was dressed in a summer dress; not unfashionable but with long sleeves that pinched at her wrists. She was self conscious of the scars but not unproud of them; they were wounds in a battle she fought for her body and, if she was feeling romantic, her soul.

She glanced across at the older woman who was the only other occupant of the terrace. If this was a fairy story and she a princess waiting to be rescued then her chaperone would be working something with needle and thread. But this was 2024 and instead her companion was playing a game on her PeacockPad which consisted of matching coloured blocks.

She absently played with a strand of dark hair that fell about her shoulder. “The weather is lovely today,” she said in a contrived sort of voice, “The wind is mild for the time of year.”

Amra Tabakovic looked up from her tablet and studied the other woman. “Yes,” she said after a moment, “It is.” She locked the tablet and placed it on the metal table before her. “There is something on your mind.” This was not a question.

“What?” asked the woman with a wave of the hand, “Not at all Fru, I don’t know where you got that idea.” When she had been very small she had tried to address Amra as “Frau” but her infant tongue tripped over the word and it came out as ‘Fru’. The name had stuck ever since.

Tabakovic was unconvinced. “Please,” she said in an exasperated voice, “I’ve known you since you were a child. What is it?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, “Honestly, nothing.”

“Hmm,” came the reply, “You had post this morning. Has something upset you?”

“Oh goodness no, it was just a letter from my younger sister. Nothing interesting; well, it is all interesting, far too interesting for her own good if you know what I mean. Fast cars, married men, that sort of thing. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Tabakovic nodded. “Something else then?”

“Pish Fru, you worry too much.” She awkwardly played with her hair.

Amra Tabakovic may have come from a poor Chelmany village in the foothills around Previs but she was not an idiot. “The young man.”
“What?” she replied quickly, too quickly, “Richard? I don’t know what you mean. I mean, he’s nice and all but we’re just friends.”

“All the evils have been locked in a room and its key is lying” quoted Amra, “And anyway, what your lips say your face denounces. It is clear you have feelings for him, and he for you.”

She bit her lip. “You’re not angry are you Fru?”

Tabakovic said nothing but, reaching across, took the young woman’s hand in her own. “You have been through much maleni,” she said with a motherly smile, “You deserve happiness.”

She squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

The smile disappeared and in its place came a look of concern. “Does he know?”

“Know what?”

“You know what I mean.”

She looked away to the horizon. “Not yet,” she said, “But I will tell him. He’s coming for tea?”

“When?”

“In about ten minutes. I will tell him then. I promise.”

The silence returned. “Does Doctor Kemmler know he is coming?”

“Well no,” she replied, “Not exactly.”

“Georgie…”

“Oh please Fru, please. He has been asking to call on me, I couldn’t say no forever.”

“Georgie…”

“Please Fru, half an hour and not a second longer. I promise. Just keep him busy. Please Fru, for me.”

Amra Tabakovic had never been a mother, never been married, but every ounce of care and love Allah had granted her she had poured into the young woman pleading before her on the terrace.

“Fine,” she relented, “Fine. For you, I will sit through one of his lectures on how he nearly played for the Men’s Hockey Team.”
“Thank you Fru, I mean it.” She spied, beyond the tall iron gate, a familiar figure. “He’s here, he’s early.”

Amra Tabakovic looked across. “At least,” she said, “Allow me to meet this man who has robbed my place in your heart.”

“No Fru, not at all Fru. I love you, and I always will. You have been my only ray of light in all the years I have been here, and nothing will ever take that away.”

She said nothing but patted Georgie’s hand.

Richard rang the bell at the gate and casually waited for a response. The estate was fairly impressive and confirmed his impression that Georgina came from a “good family” as his Aunt Clotilde would say. Not that Richard had ever paid much attention to such things.

Yet, at his age - having just celebrated his thirtieth birthday - he could no longer deny that he was less interested in the casual relationships of his twenties then in finding a long-term partner. And he could no longer deny that there were some advantages to looking for a partner among those less likely to be awed by his family's money and status.

A figure appeared at the gate. He was tall, young; wearing only a t-shirt and scuffed navy blue pants. His hands were brown with the color of soil and it was clear that he had been gardening but he did not look like a gardener. There was something of the medical orderly about him.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His words were polite but his manner was standoffish.

The walkie-talkie on his hip crackled. “Thank you Gustav,” said Amra, “The Earl is expected. You can let him through.”

Gustav eyed Richard suspiciously. He fetched the walkie-talkie from his belt. “But Herr Doktor Kemmler said no….”

“Dr Kemmler,” continued Amra, “Also desires that instructions be followed. Out.” The device went silent.

Gustav said nothing. Taking out a large key he unlocked the gate and allowed Richard inside. He motioned towards the terrace and closed the gate behind him, banging it closed with unnecessary force.

That's certainly not what I was expecting, Richard thought as he followed the man from the gate towards the house. As he neared the house, he tugged the sleeves of his pastel mauve shirt under his yellow sports coat. He climbed a short set of stairs up to the porch that seemed to wrap around the house. He wandered towards what he assumed was the back of the house that overlooked the terraced gardens. He knew that Georgina loved the outdoors and he assumed he would find her outside.

“Georgina?” He asked hopefully as he rounded a corner.

“Richard!” she tried not to leap out of her seat. He looked so elegant. “Richard, how wonderful of you to come.” She brushed her hair from her eyes as she stepped towards him. She was about to embrace him when she awkwardly stopped, aware of another presence.

Richard smiled and approached Georgina. He was prepared to hug her until he saw her hesitation. Then, he turned and noticed the other woman.

“Richard,” she repeated in a quieter voice, “Richard may I introduce Fru…I mean, may I introduce my…” She paused as she searched for the right word. “My old governess, Mrs Tabakovic. Fru, this is Earl Richard Kennan Conaill.”

“Please,” he said, “just call me Richard.” He smiled at the woman.

Amra Tabakovic was already standing. She was not especially tall, and she had filled out slightly with age, but she had keen brown eyes and neat black hair darkened to hide the gray. She was dressed in a long skirt that fell to the floor with a navy coloured blouse.

She extended her hand. “Kennan,” she said, “That’s a Saxmere name is it not?”

He took her hand and kissed the air above it, as had become fashionable after the restoration of the Grand Duchy. “Yes, it is. And quite an old one at that. But Kennan was my mother's surname; she gave it to all of us as a middle name. My father's surname is Conail, which is almost as old as Kennan.” He smiled warmly. “Are also from Ernestria? I'm guessing you're not Providencian.”

Amra bristled slightly. “Ernestrian?” she sniffed, “Well, that is what it says on my passport, but I am no stuck-up German Herr Conail.” She glanced across at Georgiana. “Present company excluded of course.”

Georgie gave a tittering sort of laugh; partly good humour and mostly nerves. “Oh shush Fru,” she gently admonished, “There’s no need to tease Richard.” She glanced around. “Please,” she said, flustered, “Please do take a seat Richard, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

Richard smiled and sat. “Thank you.”

Amra waited for Georgie and Richard to sit before taking her own seat. “I am from Ernestria,” she continued, “But I grew up in Chelmany and I didn’t learn German until I was 9.” She looked him up and down like a farmer at market. “Tell me Herr Conail, what is a nice Saxmere boy doing in Providencia? In my experience young men are either here for the work, for the casinos or for the nightlife, not of which I would find reputable.” Her tone sounded harsh but there was a twinkle in her eye which made clear that this was all said in jest.

Georgie missed the twinkle. “Fru,” she exclaimed, “Fru you can’t say that.” She looked imploringly at Richard. “I’m sorry Richard but Mrs Tabakovic has an unfortunate tendency of speaking her mind.”

“That’s alright,” Richard said with a chuckle, “I appreciate directness.” He turned and looked at Tabakovic. “My family has long had a vacation home here and I’ve just been taking a bit of a rest.”

He shrugged. “My father has been in poor health for a while, so it’s fallen to me to run the family businesses. Fortunately, things are gotten fairly quiet, so I decided to take some time away and work remotely from here.”

Amra nodded. “I see,” she said, “And what sort of thing does your family do for its ‘businesses’?”
Georgie had heard enough. “Honestly Fru,” she snapped, “It’s not an interview.” She looked imploringly at Richard. “Do excuse her; once a nanny, always a nanny.”

“I’m only asking,” replied the Chelman defensively, “There are lots of businesses in Providencia; not all of them are here for the climate or the, what is the phrase, the ‘efficient tax management’. I wasn’t suggesting the Grand Duke’s cousin to be involved in anything scurrilous, I am only asking.” She looked sympathetically at the Saxmere man. “I am sorry to hear your father is unwell. Inshallah his health improves.”

Richard smiled at Tabakovic. “Thank you,” he said. “He's getting the best care Saxmere has to offer.” He paused. “And as for our business, I can assure you it's nothing unseemly. Mostly we own land, so we collect a fair amount of rent and deal with the usual sort of legal issues that arise in property matters. Also, for historical reasons that are somewhat boring to recount, we also own a couple of, I guess you'd call them artisanal, production facilities. A brewery, a leather goods shop and a candleworks. All quite old and small scale compared to the big international producers. But they keep me busy enough.”

This seemed to please Amra Tabakovic. She nodded her head.
“Good,” she said with a smile, “Good. I am pleased that the old ways have not been altogether lost.” She turned and exchanged looks with Georgie.

Richard smiled and nodded.

She stood. “I will check how dinner is getting on. Herr Conail,” she extended her hand, “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope I shall see you again soon.”

“The pleasure was mine, Ma’am,” he said, rising briefly and taking the older lady's hand in his and kissing the air above it.
Georgie clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m so so sorry Richard,” she said in a pleading tone of voice, “I didn’t know she was going to quiz you like a Daytan border guard. If I had known I..I..I would have met you down by the yacht club. She means well but..I’m sorry.”

“Don't worry, Georgina,” he said with a light chuckle, “it's not the first time I've been grilled. My mother does a much more thorough job. And I can tell it comes from a place of love.” He reached out and took one of Georgie’s hands in his. “How are you doing? You seem a little nervous.”

“Nervous? Me?” Georgie gave a nervous, tittering laugh like a bird, “I don’t know what you mean.” She picked up a glass of iced water that sat on the table next to her and, completely missing her mouth, proceeded to pour a percentage of it down her face.

There were some choice words in the guttural German of Ernestria. “What an idiot I am,” she said eventually in English, drying herself off with a blanket that had been looped over the back of her chair as both a cushion and for when the weather turned cooler.

“Richard, do you want something to drink?” she asked, sponging water out of her summer dress. “Oh that will do,” she continued, folding the blanket up and placing it next to her on the table.

“Richard, you must know that I am very fond of you,” she paused for a moment. “Tell me how we met again, I do so love to hear you recount it.”

“And I'm very fond of you, Georgina,” Richard said with a smile. He held Georgie's hand and leaned closer. “Or first meeting? Well, I had grown tired of my spreadsheets and emails, and enjoying the beach from my window, so I snuck away early from my obligations and wandered down to the beach. I saw a crowd in the distance on the public beach and walked over to find a concert underway. A local band, I believe, playing some very rhythmic local music. I joined the crowd, letting the music move my body. Then I spotted a dark-haired beauty dancing, as they say, as if no-one was watching.

“I found her entrancing. She seemed to be dancing out of her own joy. For her own enjoyment. I was so entranced that before I knew it I was dancing beside her. Then, when I became aware of what I was doing, I stumbled, fell into her and had no choice but to introduce myself. And fortunately, she - being you, a sweet and kind soul - laughed and introduced herself.

“Not my best introduction, but at least it got me here. With you.”

She smiled a sad smile. “The music spoke to me,” she said in a quiet voice, “Spoke to my soul like I thought nothing else could. Until…” she paused and looked away, out to sea. She turned back. “Until I met you Richard.”

She pulled her hand suddenly from his. “That’s why Richard, my darling Richard, that’s why I want to be truthful to you. During all the times we have been together it has been like there has been something eating away inside of me. I do….love you Richard, but I want you to know who it is that you have feelings for. If you want me then you must have all of me, I cannot wall a part of me off from you, you must know it all. And if,” tears welled up in her eyes, “And if you decide that you cannot love me then I would rather you decide that now, before you grew to hate me for not being honest with you.” She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “Look at me, you’d think I’d murdered someone.” She looked alarmed. “I haven’t Richard, please don’t think that!”

Robert moved closer to Georgie and put a hand on her shoulder. “Georgina,” he paused, “It can't be anything that bad.” He paused. “I can't think of anything that would change how I feel about you. That would change that I love you.”

She took a deep breath. “Well…”