Wat Si Khom Kham, Kamohaeng Phet
A big state car was not really practical in the Royal Capital. There were too many winding roads, too many steps, too many places that had different sized streets, so ironically a rickshaw or litter, or using animal power or foot was more practical. Since he was a person of rank, Count Tophek often found himself forced to take a litter, which he found slow, ponderous, and maddening.
There were several matters afoot. First was the concern raised by his last correspondence with the Governor-General of the Edomite Protectorate in Great Beihe, requiring that he urge the King to make sure that the trade routes were protected. This required him to assure said king of the dear love that Elijah IV and Mara I held him in (a fact of which he was dubious; he was sure that Elijah IV simply expected allies to do their duty, and that Mara I had scant idea of who the man was) and that the Royal army was believed to be vital to maintaining the safety of these trade routes, facts as to which he was even more dubious. The Governor-General, who, perhaps, ahad a more realistic view of these things, had impressed upon him the need to have native allies and contingents fulfill these requirements due to the Imperial armies being required in Southern Acheron, had suggested a show of force against the Ghorkali and separatist rebels might be in order. “Nothing so ambitious, my dear Count,” Uzzal had advised him, “Just have them burn a few villages, carry off some hostages, something that indicates that they’re doing something. Have them try to take the initiative for a change.”
In addition to this, his brother was going to come and visit, which he despaired at. He did not want his brother in Kamohaeng Phet. Not to see him married to his little heathen wife, not to see how he had failed to urge the country to become less backward, how it remained stubbornly pagan in spite of his efforts. Not for him to see how the place seemed to sap the will with its heat and humidity, its fatalism and decadence.
However he would not let on. His face was stern as that of a statue as he was brought up to his house, the heat making him drowsy within the litter. Better a litter than a sedan chair though, which he had always felt was even more ridiculous.
Upon his arrival, what he wanted more than anything was a cool drink, some decent kibbeh, and silence. The kibbeh, unfortunately, had turmeric in it, which gave it a weird taste, as it was supposed to merely have cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, lamb and bulgar in it. And the meat was wrong as well, but he could not place it. “What meat is this?” he wondered, sipping from a shining steel cup which contained chilled ginger soda. The kibbeh was not quite the right shape either; it was shaped like wedges instead of ovals. A minor detail, but it really was too much. To be fair, he was not a cook and had no idea how to properly describe it. He decided to send for the embassy chef.
He had another more interesting question to put to his wife, however. “Tell me,” he asked her, “Has the King ever gone abroad? Would he accept an invitation to hunt from the King-Emperor? And what would be required in order to provide hospitality to the king?”
