They Who Take up the Sword

[Balthorvia]

“Cherish these moments of your victory – for one day my children will take up the sword once more, and by their steel these bonds you have placed upon my countrymen shall be cut.”
Farouq Bashir al-Aziz (1501 – 1543), last Sultan of al’Hadid

A fearsome sandstorm whipped over the sleeping city of Qala’aa as three cloaked riders sped toward its open gates, their garments flapping furiously behind them in the gale. The Balthorvian watchman at the gatehouse, comfortably entrenched in a vodka-induced sleep, was stirred by the commotion only long enough to see three shadowy figures streak like lightening past his post – before the soldier could even peek his head out they had vanished, disappearing like ghosts into the unlit alleyways of the old city.

Safe now in the labyrinthine expanse of the old Haddite capital, the three riders abandoned their horses and took to the city on foot, navigating the countless streets and alleys with uncanny precision. Every now and again the two men at the front would turn and check on their companion, whose unfamiliarity with the dilapidated neighborhood stood out conspicuously in his present company. To his relief, their destination was very close.

Crammed in-between two teetering tenements, the boarded-up windows and sunken roof of the old coffee made the tiny building practically unnoticeable in an area like this to the casual observer – but to the two men leading the way, the dilapidated exterior was unforgettable. After a quick glance to ensure the road was deserted, the party approached the rusted iron slab that served as the front door. No sooner had they stepped up to the entrance than the peephole slid open to inspect them. “Abu, Marwan,” the doorman greeted stoically, “you have returned. But who is this stranger you bring with you,” he added, turning his gaze toward the third man standing uncomfortably behind them. Quickly he pulled his hood tighter about his face.

“A friend,” Marwan assured, motioning for him to come closer. “All will be explained soon enough, Hassan – I promise.”

The bright pair of eyes disappeared again, and was quickly replaced by the lithe form of Hassan beckoning them inward. The three men hurried through the threshold as they heavy door was bolted behind them. “You are late,” Hassan noted as he finished locking the entrance, “the others have already begun without you.”

“We may have been on time if the location weren’t changed at the last minute,” Abu quipped as they started toward the backroom.

Hassan grimaced. “Someone in Mahaat tipped the Balthorvians off about the meeting – they had the entire safe house bugged and rigged with explosives in half an hour. Wouldn’t exactly have been the best first impression for your friend here.”

The third man stiffened a little but said nothing, keeping his head bowed low as he walked behind the group. His right hand constantly fiddled with something under his cloak as the other nervously massaged his arm. Hassan frowned and turned to his friends. “Is he…alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” Marwan assured, giving the stranger a friendly smile, “just a little out of his element, is all – and probably wishing he was back home,” he added with a chuckle. “But God has summoned him to an extraordinary destiny.”

Hassan’s bewildered query was cut off as the party pushed through the door into the backroom, where a circle of similarly dressed men sat convened around a long wooden table. Their energetic conversation snapped to a halt as all heads turned towards the newcomers. “Good evening, gentlemen,” the man at the end of the table boomed. “We were wondering if you would show – almost began to fear al-Saif had lost another pair of officers.”

“We were halfway to Mahaat when we heard the meeting place had changed,” Abu explained as they stepped into the chamber. “I hope you were not waiting too long to hear our report, Commanders?”

“That depends on what you have to report,” the Commandant quipped.

Marwan grinned and bowed his head. “As we suspected, anti-Imperial sentiment is growing in the Jaipur Valley. Farmers have been under-reporting their harvests to undercut the Balthorvian tax collectors, and a man in Karfir burned his entire fields to the ground in protest. The area is definitely ripe for rebellion – and if Jaipur goes, the entire country will cascade into rebellion with it.”

“The majority of the nation is with us,” Abu agreed. “I have been putting feelers out with the mountain sheikhs – some, like Iskander, are still reluctant to cross the Empire, but most are beginning to lean toward war. If we can demonstrate the viability of our cause early and decisively, they make break for our side in large numbers.”

“Certainly the energy – the spirit – is there for rebellion,” the Commandant mused as he tugged upon his beard. “But there is no anchor – no focal point around which to base a national struggle. There is no concrete idea.”

Marwan smiled and stole a sideways glance at his silent guest. “That is what I had believed as well. And then, as I was meeting with the shepherds of Al-Kabab, I made an extraordinary discovery.”

Sensing his cue, the third man stepped forward into the light and allowed his hood to fall away from his face. Every one of his chiseled features – from his commanding jaw to his fierce eyes – exuded the regal air of a king. Only his obvious anxiety and nervousness disturbed the sense of authority. “This man,” Marwan began reverently, “is by trade a modest shepherd of the valley folk; but by birth, he is Tamir Ahad ibn’Souq – the born heir to the Sultans throne itself!”

An audible scoff came from the Commandant as he regarded the young man in front of them. “Ridiculous. There is no evidence – he could as easily be the son of Yaropolk,” he dismissed to a general snickering.

Wordlessly, the young shepherd reached underneath his cloak and, with a single motion, threw the cloth back to reveal a jewel-encrusted scabbard affixed to his hip. Before anyone could react, the boy drew the blade and held it before his face – the entire room seemed to light up as the saber gleamed like the sun itself beneath the light.

“No…” the Commandant gasped, catching himself as he nearly fell backwards out of his chair. “Impossible…that’s…”

“This,” Tamir declared, speaking for the first time in his rich warble of a voice, “is the Sword of Uthman, forged by Firouz the One-Eyed in the first year of the first century – the blade which drove the Tatars back to the endless steppe. This is the mantle of the kings of al-Hadid; given to me by my father, as he received it from his father, and on and on until its very creation.”

“You know how to wield a blade?” one of the revolutionaries inquired as he regained his voice.

“It is the first time I have ever drawn it,” Tamir replied, somewhat meekly sheathing the legendary weapon.

“He is only a goat herder,” another man mused, “how will we convince the people of our nation to die for a common peasant.”

Tamir trembled a little; Marwan laid a hand on his shoulder and turned to his colleagues. “For hundreds of years, the heritage and pride of our nation has been stamped out; our monuments have all be toppled, our tombs defiled, our palaces and citadels crowned with foreign standards. Now, for the first time the light of our past glory has resurfaced – a spark placed in our hands with which to light a new flame. This man,” he said, pointing to Tamir, “is not a king – not yet. But the blood of one runs deep in his veins, and I can feel – and you must feel it to – that he has within him the character of a great man; a great enough man to take up arms against the Imperial oppressors and at last expunge them from our country.”

“Perhaps we should wait,” someone suggested, “we can build more contacts and train more recruits, we can give ourselves more time to turn this shepherd into a king-“

“The time is now,” Marwan insisted, crashing his first upon the table. “From the northern mountains to the central valleys, never has the whole nation cried out for freedom as they do at this hour! The Balthorvians are busy fighting Communists and crusaders in the distant marches – we must strike while their back is turned! And we shall do it with the Sword of Uthman in our hands.”

The Commandant kept his gaze motionless, but he could not hide the single tear which ran down the deep contours of his aging face. “Then let us fight with a valor worthy of Uthman’s legacy.”

[Balthorvia]

Her name was Diyaa Purwar – a young woman not more than fourteen years old, from the poorest districts of Qala’aa. On the morning of December 26th she left her home for her tutor’s house as she had countless times before. As she crossed Checkpoint 72A into the madrassa district, a Balthorvian guard stopped her on suspicions of smuggling and insisted she remove her habit for a search. When she refused, a struggle broke out, and in the commotion she was struck in the head by a police baton and lost consciousness. At 11:43 AM she was admitted to the emergency care ward at the local clinic.

By noon, she was dead.

Her death sparked a wave of grief and outrage across the entire city. Shops and vendors closed their businesses in a display of mourning. Balthorvian soldiers on patrol were pelted with stones and rotten produce as they went about their rounds. The local imams called for a mass protest – news of the upcoming demonstration was spread by cell phone and over the internet, until finally on December 30th a massive throng of protestors had convened in the old city square, waving banners and chanting anti-Balthorvian slogans toward the soldiers that had arrived to monitor them.

The demands of the crowd were nebulous and ill-defined. Some were calling for the removal of Balthorvian troops for al-Hadid. Most were simply venting their frustration at the foreign regime which continued to abuse them. Very few actually desired or expected any form of violence – but the spirit and emotion for conflict was there, and it was all that the agents of al-Saif required.

---

“Noisy bunch,” Private Adrian observed, passing a cigarette to his comrade as he watched the mob of protestors scream and shout. “Kinda wish I could understand what they’re saying.”

His friend snorted and spit the taste of tobacco to the ground. “Doesn’t matter,” he dismissed curtly. “They’re just bitter about stuff that happened hundreds of years ago – sore losers,” he added venomously. “Bet they’d miss us when they all had to start eating dirt again; you know, I think-“

But what his friend thought about anything would never be heard, for before he could speak a loud roar erupted from the mob in front of them, and Adrian watched in stupefied horror as a clear glass bottle arced toward the line of Balthorvian soldiers, flames sputtering out in every direction as it descended. Adrian’s friend fell to the ground screaming as the fire rose up to consume him – but he did not scream so loud that the orders of his commander could not be heard over the din.

“Shoot goddamn you, shoot!” the lieutenant cried, and at his command a hail of bullets spat out from the line of frightened soldiers to rake over the mob of their furious tormentors. Adrian shouldered his weapon and fired blindly into the crowd as even more improvised grenades cartwheeled toward his ranks.

Someone shouted “retreat!” and without further coaxing Adrian began to quickly shuffle backward toward the jeeps behind him, still wildly firing in every direction. The mob, sensing weakness, seemed to tense up for the briefest moment before like a massive sea they broke ranks and charged the Balthorvians, many wielding nothing more than stones and broken pieces of tile in their hands.

Genuinely panicking now, Adrian leaped into the back of the nearest jeep and nearly fell out again as the driver floored the vehicle to top speed and took off down the nearest road. Behind them, a sickening crash was heard as the mob managed to surround one of the vehicles and roll it over onto its side. Adrian reluctantly watched out of the corner of his eye as the crowd dragged one struggling soldier after another out of the wreck and fiercely bludgeoned them to death.

“Command, do you read!?” their sergeant yelled as the vehicle zoomed past waves of angry citizens. “We are returning to base, the crowd at the square is out of control!”

Before he had even finished speaking the radio came to life, a terrified-sounding voice filling the cabin. “Negative, the barracks is overrun – repeat, barracks is overrun, you must get out of the city!”

No sooner had the news been delivered then the jeep went around a corner and straight into an improvised roadblock; burning tires and overturned barrels littered the road – the peasants guarding the checkpoint shouted for help and began pelting the Balthorvians with rocks and pebbles.

“Turn around!” the commander ordered rather needlessly, “don’t let off the gas until we’re out the gates – Adrian, look alive man!”

The soldier followed his commander’s finger to see a disheveled Haddite clinging to the back of their vehicle, twisting and squirming as he tried to board the jeep. Frantically he wound back and planted his boot straight into the hijacker’s face, sending him flying with a theatrical cry. A dozen of his comrades sprinted to try and duplicate his feat; ready this time, Adrian leveled his rifle and began to mow them down.

He became so focused, in fact, that he was shocked to suddenly discover that their jeep was comfortably racing out the city gates and down the open desert road, the roars and shouts of battle fading to nothing more than a distant rustling. When they had put a reasonable distance between themselves and the chaos, Adrian lowered his gun and allowed him a moment’s respite. “When can we expect reinforcements?” he asked of the sergeant.

“No reinforcements,” he replied sternly, turning up the volume on his radio as he poured over a disorganized pile of old maps. “We’re gonna be falling back to Mahaat to regroup and await further orders.”

“What – we can’t leave man, those guys killed our friends, they have their bodies and everything!”

The sergeant sighed irritably. “We’ll get our dead and wounded back, Private, relax.”

“Yeah but only after they loot them and cut them up or whatever these guys-“

Adrian froze as his sergeant gave him a withering glare. “That’s nonsense talk and you know it. This is just another riot and these ‘guys’ are just another angry band of farmers who’ll take their comp money and shut up. Now sit down.”

The soldier did as he was ordered, grumbling as he turned back to look at the ancient city. Although the sounds of combat had ceased, thick clouds of smoke wafted up from behind the soaring walls – Adrian could see the Haddite savages dancing around the flames like savages in his mind, burning the Balthorvian standards and celebrating their meaningless victory. Just another riot, he reminded himself smugly, and he knew it would be only days before the Imperial flag flew over the mountain citadel once again.

---

“I have never given a speech before…”

Marwan smiled kindly at Tamir and put his arm around the young man’s shoulder, guiding him up the long steps to the top of the city walls. “It is as easy as talking to anyone else,” he assured, and then remembering the man’s inexperience with people, decided on a different approach. “You represent the hope that burns in the heart of every Haddite on this day – you are a symbol of the point of light which now shines at the end of our long darkness. It does not matter what you say, so long as you take care to say what you feel.”

Finally they reached the top of the sun-bleached battlements – so high that the roaring of the wind could be heard as it passed through the mountain peaks. Beneath them, like a sea of multi-colored grains, stretched the victorious citizens of Qala’aa - awaiting their mysterious speaker. With a last nod, Marwan urged his friend forward and mouthed, good luck.

Tamir took a deep breath and stepped atop the crenellation, balancing himself with his arms. After a nauseous pause he opened his mouth, but his voice caught treacherously in his throat. He began to tremble – from behind him, Marwan whispered, “relax.”

The man sighed and tried again. “My fellow countrymen,” he began, this time loudly and clearly, “today is a day of victory. It is a day that marks revenge for the atrocities of our supposed Imperial overlords. It is a day on which we have demonstrated that the Balthorvians can be defeated by Haddite arms. But above all, it is a day of awakening – for our nation, and its people.”

Tamir felt some of his color return; the words began to flow more freely. “Our country is rich and plentiful, with fertile fields and exotic treasures. Yet for many centuries it has been poor, because it was bereft of a single thing – hope. The chains of our slavery had been upon us for so long that we could not imagine a day when we might not be burdened by them any longer. But I stand here today to tell you that there is hope for al-Hadid.”

Tamir wobbled and nearly lost his balance in surprise at the massive cheer which erupted at his words – a goofy grin split his face as he reveled in the effect of his words. He cleared his throat and prepared to continue. “The Balthorvians think that they have broken our spirits – that all the traces of our former greatness have been stamped out, but they are wrong!” With a mighty swoosh he drew his sword from its scabbard and held it up toward the scorching sun.

“I am Tamir Ahad ibn’Souq,” he cried, “the right-born Sultan of al-Hadid – and this Sword of Uthman,” he pointed with pious reverence, “is my mantle – the instrument by which we shall make good on the promise of Firouz al-Aziz, and cut forever the bonds of our servitude!”

At this Marwan stepped to the battlements, throwing his arms out to the cheering crowd. “The time is now!” he declared. “With the help of the patriotic masses of the nation, al-Saif will liberate the country from the Balthorvian oppressors, and restore the glory of this most proud land!”

That night the Balthorvian state media printed a single one-line news item about the uprising. It read “Minor Riot in Qala’aa”, and nothing more.

[Balthorvia]

“An uprising?” the Marshal sputtered, raising a single eyebrow in inquiry as he continued to skim the contents of the newspaper flopped before him. The military governor of al-Hadid was a man ordinarily well-suited to the task of controlling the rebellious mountain country; his acumen for bribery and backdoor dealing had served the Empire well. His mastery of war, however, was a department in which he greatly struggled, and his enthusiasm for meeting challenges far too low.

“More of a glorified riot really,” his aide replied in a bored sort of tone. “The rabble of Qala’aa managed to catch us off guard and expel the garrison from the city – now they’re acting like they’ve conquered half the Empire or some nonsense.”

The Marshal drained the last of his tea and returned it to the saucer with a sigh; as was the daily ritual, his aide took the cue to hurry forward and present the governor with his cane. “Come now,” he grunted to the boy as he pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s be done with this riot nonsense before it ruins my digestion.”

---

“They are coming!” the messenger cried, sprinting through the charred doorway of the old barracks as the militia inside froze out of confusion. “They are coming,” he repeated, now doubled over and panting, “the Balthorvians – a whole regiment of them are marching upon the city along the Great Road!”

Marwan and his colleagues leapt to their feet in astonishment. “Sound the alarm across the city,” he ordered as the exhausted messenger was lowered into a chair. With hasty strides he crossed over to the courier and seized him by the shoulders. “Focus,” he demanded sharply, “are you sure the Balthorvian army is coming to the city?”

“I saw them with my own eyes,” the messenger gasped, those same eyes now wide with fear and delirium, “their advance is slow but steady – by afternoon time they will be at the city gates!”

“I knew this would happen!” Tamir cried woefully, his whole body trembling as he buried his face in his hands. “What a stupid idea, to think that a nation of farmers and peasants could defeat the men of Balthorvia! By sunset they will have us strung up before the city gates and-“

A quick yelp filled the room as Marwan struck Tamir briskly across the check, his face darkened with the scowl of a disappointed mentor. “Get a hold of yourself!” he barked as the shepherd meekly massaged his stinging jaw. “What kind of talk is that, to bemoan defeat when we have not yet even begun to fight!?” He swept his gaze across the assembled militia as the bells began to sound across the city. “This is the exactly the kind of talk that the Balthorvians want from us – the kind they expect from us! They think that if they merely advance upon this city that we shall crumble within a day. Well I, for one, would like to prove them wrong.”

“What can we do?” Tamir inquired, his shoulders hung helplessly, “they will outnumber us.”

“Their advantage lay in the element of surprise,” Marwan explained, “now that they have lost it, we have an opportunity to turn the tables on them.” He reached over and unrolled an old paper map of the province upon the table, motioning for his colleagues to gather around. “If the Balthorvians are coming along the Great Road, they will need to journey through the Armali Pass. We should arm ourselves and the locals with the leftover weapons from the barracks and set up an ambush here – if we work quickly we can be ready well before the Balthorvians arrive.”

“A solid plan,” Abu nodded, turning instinctively toward the Commandant, “shall we give the orders?”

The old man shook his head calmly. “It is not my approval you should seek anymore,” he said quietly, and immediately the gaze of everyone present swiveled silently toward Tamir.

The boy stuttered incoherently; his knuckles turned white as they gripped the edge of the table. “Wha- me, I – I don’t-“

“We await your orders, my King,” Marwan said plainly. All around the table they stood motionless, their hands clasped patiently behind their backs as they awaited the word of the right-born Sultan of al-Hadid.

“Yes…very well,” Tamir said at last, the act of approval seeming to restore some color to his face. “We will put Marwan’s plan into action immediately.”

The man nodded and rolled up his map. “Then let us hurry.”

---

Tamir checked his safety for the umpteenth time, flicking it restlessly back and forth as he lay in the hot midday sun. At his side, Marwan irritably swatted the boy’s hand and returned to peering through his binoculars. “They’re getting close – only a couple minutes now,” he reported tensely. Quickly he jumped into a crouch and snatched a red handkerchief from his pocket, waving it back and forth through the dry desert air. All across the jagged expanse of the Pass, dozens of identical red cloths waved back at him in response.

“Okay, gather close,” Marwan urged as Tamir and the handful of militia with him crawled forward into firing positions. Out the corner of his eye, Marwan could see his friend trembling again. “You have never seen battle before, have you?” he asked flatly.

“No,” the shepherd whispered, trying in vain to aim his gun with shaking hands, “never even pictured it.”

Marwan sighed and squinted through his scope. “As with all tribulations, the waiting is far harder than the doing. Your instincts will do all the work for you.”

“I have the instincts of a peasant goat herder,” Tamir returned somewhat pessimistically.

Marwan lowered his gun and looked at the anxious face of his friend. “You have the instincts of a king,” he corrected, “whether you know it or not. The same spirit which enabled Uthman to cast back the Tatars shall enable you to cast back the Balthorvians this day.”

“But what if-“

“Ssh!,” Marwan urged as they all craned their heads over the edge of the cliff; beneath them the Balthorvian convoy rumbled determinedly onward along the dusty road, oblivious to any attempts at stopping them. It was time. With sudden energy Marwan jumped to his feet and waved his red cloth high into the air.

A terrible, unnaturally cheerful whistling filled the air as a volley of mortars crashed down upon the unsuspecting Balthorvian vehicles, turning the narrow mountain pass into a cauldron of fire and smoke. A sudden burst of adrenaline rushed to Tamir’s head as he squeezed down on the trigger; his teeth rattled inside his head as the rifle began spitting bullets down to the earth. Down in the pass, the Balthorvian IFV’s began to crash into one another as destroyed and disabled vehicles turned into fatal roadblocks. Bewildered soldiers scampered out from their useless transports and began firing wildly at their tormentors.

Tufts of dust kicked up into Tamir’s eyes as bullets began whizzing back at the rebels; a short cry and a heavy thud was heard as the man to his left took a bullet to the temple and fell dead. The fear which Tamir should have felt in response never came – it was buried now, crushed beneath a wave of primal instinct. Without even thinking he grabbed the fallen warrior’s unused magazine and used it to empty another round upon the Balthorvians.

From such a height they did not even look like they real men, dying in agony in a foreign land. They were merely specks of color against a rusty backdrop, flopping one by one to the ground like freshly sliced blades of grass. After a time – seemingly a long time – Tamir realized that all their Balthorvian enemies had either fallen or fled; and then a far more powerful realization hit him: they had won.

“Well done my Lord!” Marwan congratulated, pulling the stunned prince to his feet. Tamir turned to look in awe as thick columns of smoke billowed up from the tiny mountain pass, blocking the sun with their plumes; the cracking and popping of the fires could faintly be made out against the raucous cheering of the Haddites.

“We have won…”, Tamir said dumbly, scarcely even daring to believe his own words.

“We have won this battle, anyway,” Marwan cautioned. “Countless more battles remain – ones that will be even harder; and there will be much work and toil needed to prepare for them lest they end in our defeat. But yes,” he conceded with a tired smile, “we have won.”

[Balthorvia]

Mahaat was literally a mountain city – an enormous labyrinth winding deep into the rocky heart of the Uibal Peaks like an enormous stone beehive. Despite want for light, air, water and even the most basic of comforts tens of thousands of people had come to call the dungeon their home. Love of wealth and the chance for gold and diamonds had drawn their ancestors there, many centuries ago; now the city’s command of the northern trade routes and relative isolation from the Balthorvian occupation had spurred others to do the same. Its size and influence had grown large indeed.

“كفى!,” The Sheikh spat, grimacing as if there were a bitter taste in his mouth, “I have heard the story of my homeland a million times – I need not hear it again.” He drank deep of his steaming tea in a theatric attempt to calm himself.

Marwan blushed for only a moment as he recomposed himself. “Perhaps better to simply get to business then,” he offered, shifting his eyes to Tamir seated at his left. The young man’s body was at rest, but his face betrayed annoyance – he had never before had the questionable pleasure of dealing with the Sheikh of Mahaat and his abundance of personality.

“Haven’t even finished my tea,” the elder grumbled in a stage whisper, “and already the thugs want to twist my arm.” He clapped twice and a servant glided forward to remove the refreshments. “Very well…what can I possibly do for your gentlemen?”

Marwan leaned forward in his chair, letting the pause extend just a moment long. “Have you paid much attention to the news lately, sayyid? You might’ve heard there’s something of a war brewing down in al-Rabbo.”

“A couple of uppity farm-folk got the jump Balthorvians with a sucker punch,” the Sheikh returned, his sluggish diction adding contempt to every syllable. “Hardly an epic battle of mighty armies...”

The rebel didn’t retreat for an instant. “How many wars ever started off with ‘an epic battle of armies’, sayyid?” he challenged, glaring deep into his host’s cloudy eyes. “The winds of battle are blowing. The people are fed up with being oppressed – they are ready to throw their lot in for change, you must be able to sense it-“

“Go to the fields of al-Aswan and ask the dead how well change worked for them. Go shuffle through the bones in the Empty Valley – go wander the mass graves of Nazarath and tell me if they thought the time was right for change. A million men like you have had these thoughts, Marwan, and they’ve failed as many times.”

The rebel shook his head in frustration. “It’s different this time – all the stars are aligning.” He turned to Tamir and after a moment’s hesitation decided to play his trump card. “God the most merciful wants us to succeed. He has returned the light of our people to us, so that we may exorcize the Balthorvian demons.”

The Sheikh’s jaw hung open in utter confusion for an uncomfortable moment. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Without a word, Tamir reached into his satchel and returned with the glimmering scabbard of his royal sword, alight like a crackling fire even in the darkness of the subterranean dwelling. Even the chieftain’s old and drooping face could not disguise his astonishment. Enjoying himself now, the young prince slowly drew the ancient blade and lifted it in the air, wincing from the pain of its blinding reflection.

“By God himself,” the old man said flatly. “Where did you find this?” he asked of Tamir, a newfound softness in his voice.

“It was given to me by my father,” he said simply, “as he received it from his father, and on and on.”

This series of revelations seemed to overwhelm the Sheikh; when he finally spoke again he had the look of a man many years older. “God may be on your side,” he conceded softly, “but the Devil is on the Emperor’s side. He has given him and his servants the power to rain death from the sky and to track your every movement from beyond the heavens. How can we overcome such a terrible foe?”

“The Empire is weakened right now,” Marwan insisted with a jab of his fist. “They are smarting from the war with the Communists and wasting men and money trying to hold onto their spoils. Meanwhile their workers grow bolder and the peasants restless – this is the best opportunity we may have for a century!”

The Sheikh was a man unaccustomed to making such difficult decisions, and his unease was obvious. “I have to look out for my people,” he insisted, “if I openly join the rebellion they will all be in danger. My own warriors are not enough to protect against the might of the Balthorvians-“

“al-Saif,” Marwan interjected calmly, “will supplement your defenses. We are all one in this war, sayyid. The time has come to put aside the differences that have divided us and act as a single nation.”

“There are far more Sheikhs and Emirs in this country than just me…”

Marwan smiled and sat up smarmily. “And I shall convince them too.”

The old man sighed and threw up his hands. Having exhausted all his excuses he relented, turning his gaze to the shining blade lying before him on the table. “I hope so,” he mused to himself, “or this war shall not last long.”

[Balthorvia]

Church of the Eternal Salvation
Spopomir, Balthorvia


"THE ORNAMENTS of the Church are its scales, but the voice of the choir are its notes." Within the appropriate circles this was a well-known proverb of Balthorvian Orthodoxy attributed to Mikhail Praspashtulpin, the 16th Century Patriarch who pioneered the study of art and architecture in Balthorvia and came to be the virtual founder of these disciplines. His meaning was not just that the church was left incomplete without song to accompany its treasures. He meant to say that the chanting of hymns and psalters was like an emanation which rested on the physical appearance and shape of the church - the music produced by the choir became an essential part of how the worshipful saw the interior and so different designs could determine the way the faithful received the experience of mass.

He would have felt his theory well-demonstrated today, the 26th of February 2017, as the long and snaking procession come to hear Nicodemus Nadoli lead the people in worship for the first time as Emperor of Balthorvia walked into a temple so high and wide that the echoing words of the holy singers could have been thought to fall like cool, frothy water from the grooves embedded high and deep in the upper recesses between towering columns, sparkling white windows, and gleaming beams of light falling through streaks around the soaring central dome. Their vulgar murmuring, chattering, stepping, shuffling, squeaking only served to establish the sense of contrast - they mortal, human, wandering up marble stairs into a realm that was holy, divine, and separate from the normal world.

There was sitting room for some, if power and responsibility had reserved them a place in the pews which sat in front of the altar; for the greater part of them it would be necessary to stand in a cramped, teeming crowd which ran unbroken from the velvet cordons dividing the pews all the way down the stairs and out the great front doors into the sun-drenched courtyard, where many had arrived not even to try and join in the mass but merely to be close to the action and lounge in the garden on such an unusually nice and extraordinarily busy day. Through circles of smiling friends and wayward-running children, soldiers walked with their hands at the ready and their eyes keen for anything distasteful in the ranks of the hangers-on.

Silence fell over the congregated people - not because anyone had cued it, but since the fading of the last few notes of the hymn signaled the advent of the ceremonies proper. Only the softest rumbling came from the swaying mass of people while Emperor Nicodemus, flicking the ears of his Holy Bible, boomed the temple with the noise of his breathing and smacking lips. "Brothers," he began, throwing his gaze over the expanse of the church, "sisters; friends; fellow believers. We all of us give our thanks to God that we are here in good health, loved by one another, and united in our common bond of devotion to Him who has brought us along safely and without fear. For I cannot help thinking that it is He whom we ought to praise when so many and such grave matters as all these which have recently appeared to us are resolved with miraculous timing into portents of future success. That which we feared by the grace of God has been turned aside, or else sheds its dark aspect and reveals itself not in the guise of disaster, but in the shape of destiny. Our destiny, Balthorvians, which leads us to take for ourselves the mantle which we have long considered in word and fought for in deed - the mantle of leadership in human and spiritual affairs.

What does this mean, to lead the world in moral and material education? Does it mean that we abandon our way of life in favor of the course of things followed by others entirely not like us, the course followed by this country to complete disaster and confusion for the past twenty years? Never! Our mantle of leadership was conceived in the first place with the understanding that our way of life was a way of life which could succeed in the world on every level, whether national, social, political, or economic. It was only after the rise of anti-cultural systems of thought, in which men and women at every level from the peasant farmer to the Emperor and Empress of all Balthorvia were reared in isolation from the edifying influence of the church, the village, the family, and the state that commodities of pure money power were valued at a higher price than the essential bonds of national culture. Which course of action destroyed the moral teaching of the church, destroyed the social bonding of the village, destroyed the confident love of the family, and destroyed the pride and trust in the collective destiny of the Balthorvian state!

In this 21st Century, the world will know that we choose to believe in the power of community and worship rather than in the money power of national, social, political, or economic exploitation. Our mantle of leadership will not be the private project of the absentee landlord but the public aspiration of the whole people at every level of society! We will put our feet back on the ground and declare as one body that we are committed to untangling the confusion between the human and the spiritual affairs of our life. And we will never, not now or again, make the mistake of putting work and labor in the place reserved alone to God.

Thus our way of showing thanks to the Lord for his mercy leads us, as it always was supposed to, on one and the same path as leads to the national, social, political, and economic enlightenment of our nation. The worship of God, which was always meant to be tantamount to these things, will be stripped of the wrongful emphases driven by money power politics and returned to its place as the bread of the people administered by the properly ordained and sanctified representatives of the mysteries of Christ. The wisdom of these teachers will turn our hearts from the sickness of purchasing power and remind us of the importance of the spiritual and communal activities which were central to our traditional way of life. So the return of their leadership will begin to undo at last the slow death of moral and spiritual authority that began with the decline of worship as a way of education and the rise of worship as an instrument of money power politics.

We undertake to make these changes and purify our soul not because we are breaking with the past but because we are returning to what worked in the first place, what has always worked in this country. So our lives will not be thrown out, redone brand new beneath the sun, but cleaned and refocused to a new era in which the successful methods of yesterday will be applied to national, social, political, and economic success in the modern present. Soon indeed we will see that the mercy of God has not only carried us to safety, but shown us a viable path into the future of the world...."

***

al'Marziq, Mourthag Province

The city streets were crowded today and the noise and activity was very great. This was the case on virtually any day, except today the streets were crowded and active for an unusual reason. They were swarming with Balthorvian soldiers and their clanking military vehicles, such that the resident people did not even shop and stroll as they usually were wont to do, but huddled the sides of the roadways in cynical cliques while they stared at and whispered about the columns of troops pouring past their homes. For most of the Haddites, this was a strange and ominous happening - no thing like this had happened before. Probably very few if any knew that the reason for the swarm of Balthorvian soldiers was a general mustering in the city, to extradite the Imperial garrisons of the country and assemble them in one location to prepare for a large-scale operation against the rebellious league of cities.

A snarling BTR tore through the middle of the market street at decent speed, and in stride the chaperone of young Zammar Alfarsi cast a sour look over his shoulder to spite the infernal contraption before it disappeared. "Fucking devils," he snorted in the general direction, and then turning his head even further he took account of his apprentice's angry blank face. "If I didn't know any better I might think they had horns on their heads," he grumbled, again glaring down the road.

"Perhaps they do," spat Zamman as the pair of them turned down a darkened side alley.

"I've slit the throats of several myself," the master informed him with intellectual polish, "they don't have horns." With a grunt he unbolted the lock which sealed the back door and yanked it open to uncover the black interior, "but they can turn quite red, depending upon the occasion." By his hand he offered the first passage. "Please."

The athletic and almost sullen face of Zamman betrayed no emotion whatsoever when he stepped into the darkness. His chaperone slammed the door behind them and by muscle memory flicked the lights to reveal a cramped but considerable armory of weapons of war strewn across empty bookshelves and a beaten wooden table. Individual bullets littered the floor.

Zamman's mentor had seen the collection a hundred times and paid it no mind, approaching to the table without distraction and clearing himself a little space. The aspiring warrior showed some pleasure for the first time at absorbing the muscular arsenal of death. "Am I the first you have shown this?"

"No, there are may others," the mentor said matter-of-factly as he laid out his parchment. "But if I am to be caught in here and burned alive I would rather it was just a loss of two than two-hundred." He threw down the pen and stepped back, "sign your name."

Zamman sauntered to the document much more deliberately than he had needed to. The murky paper was a very simple oath of loyalty, an essential step to joining al-Saif, although it seemed that there was a document or a ceremony for doing anything, none of which ever symbolized an explicit membership. Zamman signed it quickly.

"Good. Then I will explain to your our plan." The chaperone walked the boy to the first of the gutted bookshelves and began slowly to pace. "We are determined that when we launch our attack it should not fail for lack of ability. Therefore the first thing you must recognize is that we propose three lines of attack: volume, power, and discretion..."

Zamman interjected, "you mean machine-guns to pin them in the streets, rockets for their vehicles, and bombs to wipe them out as they flee-"

"Quite right," the mentor finished. "When you get the signal everything you see here will be just as it is now. Take as you will, but if there is nothing else left you will have to take whatever is there."

"It makes no difference to me," said Zamman quickly.

"Great then."

[TURTLESHROOM II]

{ OOC: Tagged! I just finished reading your posts. This is a really good story, and I am interested in seeing if I can be a part of this story. Is this an open RP, or are you just writing a book for others to read? My country's government and culture are not very compatible with Islam and very compatible with the overlords, but there are untold countless private investors and interests that could see the Haddite revolt as a Godsend for their wallets. }

{ OOC: I'd love to join in: you are clearly a talented writer. }

[Balthorvia]

The Edict of March 5, 2017

Also known as the Coronation Edict, this general legislation was the first in the reign of Emperor Nicodemus and represented the beginning of the reforms. The reaction following these enactments included nationwide rallies and episodes of mob violence against the properties of the large landholder-industrialists and their private staff. Imperial soldiers were deployed in the next few days and took the landholders' possessions into their control, creating an uneasy truce. In the volatile situation, the largest of the major landholder-industrialists met on the 11th and held a council at the estates of Kryzbulin-Kaspazod, where they issued a statement condemning the events and urging the Emperor to rescind his "dangerous" acts

Nicodemus, by the Grace of God Emperor of Balthorvia, King of al-Hadid, King of the Khartul, Grand Duke of Yarlov and Count of the Northmark, to his firm and loyal subjects, greeting. Wherefore we have seen of late all about the country and most conspicuously in the public affairs such disorders, crimes, abuses, injuries, nonsense and decay as tends to the general destruction of the realm and the erosion of the general welfare of all the people we have persevered ourselves, in consultation with all the lords, bishops and prelates of the realm as are properly disposed to the preservation of the common peace to issue just and necessary laws in order to correct the course of the nation and make remedy for the suffering of the whole corporate body. In this interest we have willed the following be carried into law immediately by all officers and magistrates of the realm with the full support and compliance of the people.

[1] That henceforth these and all other laws of the Empire as exist in legal force and valid proclamation by the Imperial government not otherwise contradicted are to be respected and observed as decreed, recognizing absolutely no exemption under any circumstance regardless of wealth, title, honors or occupation, etc

[2] Any officer or magistrate of the Imperial government responsible for the enforcement of these and all other Imperial laws who fails to provide the just and equal treatment of the law entitled to the people of the realm will henceforth and in the future be considered immediately vacated from his office and subject to the appropriate penalties according to the circumstances of his offence.

[3] To promote the proper enforcement of these requirements upon our officers, we have instructed our agents of justice to make themselves available to the public in a reliable and clearly explained fashion to the effect that injuries or transgressions of the public trust in these administrations of justice can be promptly investigated at the direction of the people of the realm and to their satisfaction

...

[17] In order to begin the much-needed process of reviving the Church, our spiritual foundation and instructor, we have ordered our agents of justice to begin inquiries at once to the effect of determining the terms of the leases and gifts by which the Temples were endowed and to restore to them their proper holdings and liberties that may have been taken from their control improperly

[18] To facilitate this and all of the previous enactments were hereby order all tenants-in-chief or any who hold of us to immediately declare to our agents and magistrates of justice their compliance and their preparation to reveal in full all of the documents, charters, gifts, grants, and leases in which they hold their properties so that there may be no confusion about the true liberties, obligations, and rights therein

...

[23] No person when accused of a crime is to be held indefinitely against his will, but if he or any of his associates inquire as to the cause and circumstances of his detention a complete answer must be given by the authorities

[24] We also wish that no person should be required to provide evidence or face trial without having been also provided the opportunity to secure council and representation from a peer or from an expert of the law

[25] To the same effect of these provisions we have instructed our officers and magistrates of justice to review at once and in entirety the reasons under which all persons are detained and to provide to them all of their rights under the laws of the realm here and everywhere else

[26] To the same effect of these provisions we desire that no person who is a lessee in the instance of arrears or failure to pay should be detained indefinitely but must be allowed to move their case at once into the courts of our royal prerogative above established

...

[32] We hereby suspend the provisions of the Statute of 1971 as concern treason in the name of sedition, libel, and slander until such time as our agents of justice may finish in reviewing the circumstances of all those detained under this and other acts

...

[Balthorvia]

Report on the Battle of al’Marziq
27 March 2017

There was something strange about the city today. The Balthorvians soldiers were not nearly as culturally oblivious as either the Haddites or they themselves liked to believe such that they could not notice the strange dispositions – awkward glances from frolicking children, women walking long routes at weird angles, and men either sidled up in the shade or else nowhere to be found at all. The soldiers were a fact of daily life in the city and al’Marziq spoke to them like a grudging acquaintance. When they tried to ignore the Balthorvians so blatantly as this it was impossible not to notice the difference.

And they always say up in Mourthaq that the silence between friends is like shouting inside of the brain.

Colonel Pyotr A. Podshivalov was the commander of the garrison in the city and like all good Balthorvian soldiers he was very particular about the distinction between silence and shouting. The strange mood in the city had been raised at the late-morning briefing and before lunch he had decided to tap all of his contacts in the four quarters. Many did not respond and some claimed to fear for their lives. At 12:41 pm Colonel Podshivalov contacted his colleague Colonel Ostapyuk at Atasfyev Air Force Base to request a helo fly-over as aerial reconnaissance.

It was a 15 minute journey for the heavy Mi-24 to reach the outskirts of the city scattered along the deep blue canals of the River Thunamin beneath swirling desert dust. The pilot peering down through UV goggles radioed Podshivalov directly to tell him what he saw: precisely nothing, or very little, of people – conspicuously empty streets where there would normally be long processions of men, women, and children.

The helo began to approach the center of the city where the confines of the Balthorvian base were visible with tents, vehicles, and a large Imperial flag all within. On the ground just outside the outermost checkpoint the earth started to shake and the sand was sucked up from the earth into a maelstrom while the thunking of rotor blades dawned over the inner district. Citizens turned up their heads and marveled at the lumbering machine appearing above the city and the long shadow it threw across the bleached brick buildings.

In the dust and darkness and confusion a furious voice cried out and drew the eyes of his countrymen down the city road. A young man of perhaps 20 years, he thrust his fist to the sky with a face contorted in passion. “God is greater than the devil!”

Just like that he exploded into a fireball much larger than he, smashing the sandstone confines on his either side from their heights, toppling the crenellations of the 16th Century walls of the Balthorvian fort. The Imperial soldiers at the gates started, more explosions resounding from nearby. Al-Saif partisans appeared on the roofs across the street and began to throw bullets down upon the Balthorvian garrison.

From his position the pilot of the Mi-24 saw the attack begin in its full scope with explosions popping around the ancient fort and rifles flashing from open rooves. At once he drew up in place and his gunner began to apply the GSh-23 to the closest of the insurgent emplacements ranged against the base. The partisans dashed to return to safety within the house, where pieces of ceiling shattered and dropped to the ground like a powdery mix.

At other places more insurgents of al-Saif were racing into position by the minute. In teams of 3 or 4 they unpacked the tripod base of AGS-30s and pitched grenades through the breaches created in the Balthorvians’ high medieval walls.

From above the carnage the helo pilot could see one of these positions in the periphery of his vision. Dropping the profile of his nose, he sent an S-24 streaking into the top of the offending house.

Brick chunks the size of an SUV spun like coins 30, 40 meters high in the air. Now small-arms fire was buzzing about the cockpit and the pilot throttled toward the western quarter of the city. Within the confines of the fort Imperial soldiers dashed into BTRs and lumbered into the street.

The fighting was fierce and the Balthorvians produced heavy fire against their adversaries, who faced grave danger to bring their weapons to bear. Partisans racing into the open with grenades and rockets were killed, maimed, blinded, or put back below the roof by the thundering rhythm of the Imperial autocannons.

The helo turned sharply over the western quarter and came back on an approach which raked the long partisan emplacements opposite the fort with bullets and another S-24 salvo. At ground level, infantry teams began breaching the doors and threatened to trap the insurgents at the roof level at the mercy of the helo overhead.

Now at about 1:34 pm a second wave of insurgents came from the eastern quarter and pressured the Balthorvians at ground level from the side, endangering their vehicles with disciplined salvos of rockets and AMRs. The Imperial troops themselves began to use the houses for defense while certain of the BTRs were employed as a perimeter.

As the Balthorvians cleared the emplacements of the insurgents several of the houses were rigged with explosives and detonated, and many more were found similarly which did not properly trigger.

By 2:01 pm the insurgents had retreated, benefiting from the fear that they had set traps behind themselves. 89 of them were confirmed killed and several captured. Imperial losses were 11 KIA, 8 wounded, and 2 disabled vehicles.


D. Alekseyvich Bocharov
Military Prefect of the 4th Haddite Brigade

[Balthorvia]

Our Soil: Reporting the Crisis in the Arctic Kingdom

The following is an excerpt from Our Soil, a book published in 2021 by Solomon Eisenstein, a renowned investigative journalist, who spent over ten years of his life in investigative journalism within the Balthorvian Empire. Although he had an approved visa, Eisenstein was frequently in trouble with Balthorvian authorities for smuggling uncensored written and visual material without the approval of the Imperial censors. During the events of 2017 he escaped his government handlers and spent three weeks rogue, covering the popular reactions to the reforms and the aristocratic backlash. When he was recovered at the end of May authorities confiscated his belongings and he spent the rest of the Crisis under close supervision. His book contains his personal recollections of the Crisis as well as photographs and interviews he managed to hide from the Imperial government. In the following passage, Eisenstein describes the scene at a landlord's administrative complex in the Spopomir Oblast as Imperial troops confiscate the landholder's accounts.

The next day began in great confusion. It was still over an hour to sunrise when I was wakened by the sound of footsteps, furniture, and loud conversation downstairs. Hurriedly I dressed myself and I grabbed my things and went down into the main room. Egor [his host, a tenant machinist] and his neighbor were helping a gaunt stranger to the kitchen table suspended by both arms. The man had his hat pressed hard against the bridge of his temple and I could see some bright clods of blood underneath the surface of dirt. I was shocked and I asked what had happened. Egor was running to get a cold compress.

His neighbor spoke while he helped the man to sit. "The golovorezy [the private thugs hired by the landlords] caught him as he was coming back from the community center."

The injured man seated himself; his hat obscured his vision but he looked up toward his friend with an apologetic expression. "Stupid mistake. Nikolai said the whole team would meet there but less than a dozen showed and after ten minutes they came and chased us all away."

Egor returned clutching a bag of ice. "He said the same to me but I didn't bother. Like I said, it's too early. Only the tough guys want to be out at 4:30 in the morning."

I asked what they were meeting for.

"That's why we have to meet," the man said - he was frustrated. "According to Nikolai some wanted to vote and make some rules - no more working until such-and-such, no cheesework Sunday, but we didn't get the chance."

Egor was asking him what the news was in Zeleneysa [another district] when at length his wife came down the stairs; she frowned befuddledly at the strange scene. "Trouble?" she asked breathlessly.

"No no, just bad luck," Egor said, checking his friend's injury. "Why don't you fix us some tea if you're awake."

His friend said, "how does it look Egor?"

Gingerly he peeled back the ice; a sticky web of raised flesh and blood breathed painfully in the shape of a bludgeon's edge. "Very nasty," was his glum appraisal, "but I think you are alright Kuzma."

Kuzma sighed and he gave himself a stout-hearted laugh. "My typical trip to the community center."

---

It was a warm day in the Balthorvian summer. Kuzma heard from some friends there was a big gathering planned at the landlord's record house. It had been over a week and still the Emperor's decrees concerning the labor rolls and the other records had not been obeyed. The plan was to protest in front of the building and refuse to work until the Edict was observed and the landlord gave his paperwork to the auditors. The weather was good and this time the word was spread widely from one district to the next. Egor waffled some at the idea of the protest and Kuzma's enthusiasm shrank from it. They seemed to agree that the worst case scenario was distasteful. But the idea had its own attraction. I could tell the men were fascinated by the imagination of what could occur. About noontime or a little after they prevailed on each other to go and watch from a distance.

When we got there a decent crowd was already surrounding the front half of the building and the tall chain-link fence posted around the perimeter. The guards paced anxiously and glared at the tenants. The people chanted their slogans one after the other. Almost always they returned to the landlord's blatant disregard for the letter of the law.

Maybe twenty minutes after we had arrived the chief of the hired security or a commander of theirs spoke to the crowd with a megaphone and warned them to disperse or else they would be punished for violating regulations. A torrent of outrage answered him from the mob. More people were coming. A few of the most reckless dashed for the fence and were caught by the guards and wrestled to the ground.

Virtually the same time, the security in the upper windows of the building pitched tear gas into the crowd and the workers fell back in confusion. We were towards the back and we escaped the gas but we narrowly avoided getting trampled in the crowd of people. No sooner did we rest behind the wall of the textile building close by than a gang of a dozen or more hastened up and cracked the padlock on the entrance; they raced upstairs and started to hawk stones and sharp metal at the guards and over the perimeter.

Egor and Kuzma soon agreed to leave; neither was especially more reticent than the other. We trekked back to the house and on our way the feeling of excitement was palpable; people ran through the paths and congregated in the shade to speculate and get in touch with the others. When we got home Egor's wife was watching the television. The Emperor was speaking to a crowd of students at the University in the city and urging his latest credo of accountability to "everyone's good." We sat with her awhile and the two men nervously shared their gentle skepticism.

It was a little before 4 in the afternoon when Kuzma's friend came again from the other district and shocked us. A convoy of Imperial soldiers was coming to seize the landlord's accounts. We were suspicious. He told us come back again; there was a new crowd and the golovorezy were on their best behavior. Once again the prospect was irresistible. We convinced ourselves to go at a distance.

When we arrived a huge crowd was standing a ways away from the complex, buzzing with gossip. The guards paced the outskirts of the fence but they said and did nothing. We stood there for at least ten minutes, sustained by our wild imagination. Then others began to run down the main road and they were saying the Imperial soldiers were just behind them. Sure enough it was but long moments until the Balthorvian jeeps pulled into the crowd and a tremendous cheer broke out.

The commanding officer paid no mind to the people; he approached the gates in complete concentration. Others in the rank and file were less austere; they waved to their countrymen and pumped their fists, reveling in their moment as heroes of the state.

We saw the officer exchange words with the guards at the gates. Very shortly the doors were opened; they convoy rolled inside and the soldiers dispersed their mercenary counterparts to form a ring between the fence and the people. The rest of them pushed into the building and filed beneath the colonnaded canopy with rifles slung on their backs.

The soldiers henceforward made an almost perfect image; their visages were impeccable and totally aloof. They could not even be tempted by the second raucous cheer which shook the cool afternoon when the soldiers came back from the building with huge leather-bound catalogs tucked under the arms and the grim-faced accountant handcuffed at the back of their ranks.

---

Egor put the Emperor's injunction with careful inhumanity on top of his armoire. I couldn't help but wonder at his stern lack of enthusiasm for the temporary administration...

[Balthorvia]

Qala'aa, The Principal City of al-Hadid
Inside the Great Fort

It was late in the day. The sun, filtered through the fort's iconic recessed windows, had traversed almost the full length of the mural painted on the concave surface of the back wall. This had been Rafi al-Witad An'shi 's crowning achievement, a room designed so that the sun progressed from morning to night across the story of Uthman's victory against the Tatar invaders, the bloom of his 3rd Century career. Now in the waning hours the sun fell upon Uthman as he built the high walls of the city - the end of the struggle against the invaders, the beginning of the nation as a power in its own right. At his side, tucked in the loop of his belt, the Sword was painted to flash like the sun in the eyes of the viewer.

In this otherwise empty room which overlooked the breadth of the city, the king's counselors had placed a long and wide table of plain wood. Candles dotted the surface and gave extra light to the scales of turquoise across the wall. Abu Nithab, the king's marshal, stood at his place and forcefully delivered his news of the war's opening events. "My lord these Balthorvians have plaid the part of the bull and so they are fierce, not to be thrown down by the raw strength of your warriors. But we have done well to answer as the snake, and so our positions are good and they will sustain us if we can make good use of the power of our country."

He paused to consider the group. "Our greatest challenge is still to convince our countrymen of the potential to succeed. The highland chiefs are cynical and they will not go over with the enemy army camped so readily amidst them. Without their support I fear we can do nothing against the Balthorvians. They will have everything they need and when can reach them they will already be in range of your Majesty's principal cities."

"We had our chance to make a statement at al'Marziq," one of the counselors griped, the Sheikh of Mahaat, distinct among the courtiers, "but instead we were defeated even at our very best."

"You know what they say about barbed words for the martyrs, sayeed," the marshal roughly shrugged the old man's acerbic tongue, "but this is to my point. The defeat was a sting but we showed steel deep in their territory. The outrage has produced its own type of enthusiasm."

The chief grumbled but he had no further part to play. The king, sitting at the end of the table, leaned forward and channeled his energy into deep thinking. His fingers obsessively straightened his narrow beard. "What do you propose then? More of the same?"

"No my lord!" Abu replied forthrightly. It was not half as bad as the blow taken at al-Marziq. "Let us not forget that we have won little victories elsewhere. Our positions in the highlands are good and we have networked much of Mourthaq. Let us continue and try to draw the noose around the Balthorvians in their base!"

Fahtar, a great warrior of the king and al-Saif, snorted, his objective disbelief more painful by far than the Sheikh of Mahaat's compulsive cynicism. "It will be some noose for a bull, sayeed."

"The noose is drawn already, syed Fahtar-"

The king looked at his marshal very plainly. "That is what I fear indeed, syed Abu."

"At your permission, my king," Marwan the king's chief counselor began tentatively from the king's side, "I do not think the marshal is very wrong to speak of the noose we must draw around the Balthorvians. If I may say so, I only differ to think that the noose might be much larger than he says. You yourself, syed, at the beginning of your report, although you soon chased the heat of your own passion, observed that the support of the highland chiefs is the most important prize of all. I think you have merely confused the course of action. Why is this the key thing if not so that we can fight and win against the enemy in their highlands?"

Abu stretched out his hand. "I mean to say that our emissaries must carry this front at the table so we will win on the field of battle."

"There is no room at the table in the highlands, syed, because the devil sits there and he eats for two. And we know that the devil has many forms, syed Abu, but if our lord will permit me to say, you do not have a clear-headed plan for any one of them."

The king leaned back and regarded Marwan curiously. "What is your suggestion?"

"If I may be concise, my lord, I believe that semantics has confused us and we see disgrace where we should see the crux of our opportunity. The devil may descend on the plains but this is our territory and we command it. We will always fight better here than in the defeated passages of the highlands. And if we win here, the victory at the doorstep of your Majesty's house will resound much more than to blacken the walls of long-lost forts in the darkest part of the realm. We are confusing ourselves too much! All our problems will be solved with a victory. There is no better victory available to us than the victory we will win right here, in the heart of al-Hadid."

The Wali nodded appreciatively. "Wisdom falls on your side as usual, syed Marwan."

The king straightened. "For once I am inclined to agree," and the laughter was thankful. He turned to his marshal, "I hope the same is true of you."

Abu nodded; he could take this fine. "Yes my lord, to win is all. I will do as you command."

The last rays of sunlight crept from the face of Uthman the Great.

[Balthorvia]

Kryzbulin-Kaspazod

The wetlands of Kryzbulin-Kaspazod were a romantic Balthorvian landscape, even before the Duke of Solshu staked them out for a private park in the early 19th Century and beautified them, building a fine wooden walkway and sweet victorian lamps to crisscross the trickling surface of cattails and water poppies. This was maybe the best or certainly the most stereotypical example of the craze that had captured the aristocracy in the idyllic 1800s, when a wave of romanticism inspired the Balthorvian elite to imagine themselves as rustic gentlemen and well-cultivated humanists in the pulse of a vigorous traditional and agrarian society. It was meant as a preserve of the Balthorvian nation itself, from which the Duke could draw strength, wisdom, and peace. Now his ancestor, Kiril of Solshu, sat by the huge windows of the gentlemen's parlor and felt a fierce sense of protectiveness and importance from gazing upon the orange-lit surface of his forefather's misty bog.

"I'm annoyed, Grigor." The Duke with a heavy sigh separated himself from the woodland scene and affixed a candid grimace to his wrinkled steward. "This is my first visit in 5 years and I won't even get to hear a bloody duck quack except for the customer service people from Securidus, and they do not sit half as well on my stomach Grigor, and they are far less worthy of the hole in my wallet." Continuing to push his vexation across the table, the Duke of Solshu cradled the lukewarm cup of tea and nursed a tender sip.

His steward nodded appreciatively. "Well this is just a bit of bad business, my lord, there will be time again when you have seen all this through."

The Duke clanked his cup on the saucer and breathed angrily out the nose, all but writhing in his antique chair for want of satisfaction. "What is the word from Robert, did you speak with him?"

Robert Ruchkin, the Duke of Scleros, was the de facto leader of the beleaguered nobility in this time of crisis and an affable man in his mid 30s. The steward balanced himself to deliver the news. "He wants something done just as badly as yourself, my lord, but he's very concerned about the public opinion."

The Duke of Solshu leered viciously and flailed his anger, "how am I not concerned about the public opinion?"

"He sees these mercenaries as a great mistake..." The old man's agreement was obvious and his reply came out like a prophetic warning. "They will only make the problem worse. He wants to try and take the sword from Nicodemus' hand."

The Duke frowned. "You mean the boycott..."

The steward nodded, "quite so. Many have already joined him - your cousin Vladimir thinks he will sign on. It is not a bad card to play, my lord. It has the integrity of truth. How can the peasants be paid when the accounts are confiscated by the ministers in Spopomir?" he said quizzically.

The Duke sighed and gave an ostentatious massage to his forehead. "It is too late for such a thing, Grigor, the peasants are already inflamed, their anger will not switch to the government just because we point the finger in a different direction!" He blew out the mouth, simmering. "We have to stand our ground against Nicodemus from a position of strength."

"You know that is not the popular way right now, my lord," Grigor apologized, "few others have your stomach for the hard life of civil war and its infamies."

The Duke leaned back; he fingered a cigar from the end table beside him. "I know."

[Balthorvia]

The Extraordinary Military Commission of Titles, Fees and Honorifics

Usually just called "The Extraordinary Commission", this special council of the high-ranking military leadership was the next move of the Emperor Nicodemus Nadoli against the oligarch landholders who remained actively aligned against his government of the country. It was viewed inside as well as outside the country as the first time that the Emperor was actively attacking his aristocratic landholders rather than trying to introduce reforms. Historians who have since reviewed the documents declassified after the revolution tend to interpret the Commission as a new strategy after the original injunctions ended in failure with large portions of the oligarch accounts and resources fortified through various legal devices. Not yet willing to disturb the normal structure of the nation's top-down economy and infrastructure, ironically the Emperor instead began to hyperbolize the insurgency in al-Hadid to try and create a military emergency which he could use as a pretext to resurrect some of the ancient terms of the feudal leases pertaining to military service and the national defense. First meeting on June 18th, the Extraordinary Commission immediately began to review the leases of the Emperor's primary opponents and in total issued more than 300 injunctions to assume control of all or part of the feudal properties. The move was soon to trigger a second, larger assembly of the landholders at Nichego on June 27th

Nicodemus Nadoli, by the Grace of God Emperor of Balthorvia, King of al-Hadid, King of the Khartul, Grand Duke of Yarlov and Count of the Northmark, has issued this edict for the immediate preparation of the Balthorvian nation and her complete defense. It is a matter of antiquity that the leases, fees, and landholdings entrusted to the power of the country's nobility were extended in part on the understanding that their possession was applicable at the appropriate time to the military defense of the realm and the personal protection of its sovereign lord the Emperor of Balthorvia. Wherefore the current state of affairs in the Emperor's property of al-Hadid has greatly increased the importance laid upon these fundamental obligations and instigated an urgent interest in assuring their complete solvency in the event of emergency hostilities which increasingly appear likely to occur. If it were the case that these leases are not competent in this crucial dimension integral to the protection and independence of the nation it would seriously pose the risk of irreparable destruction to the country and all of its inhabitants at every rank and level of honor. We are especially concerned that the continued foot-dragging and unjustified legal obstruction which has made it nearly impossible to verify compliance in regards to the rents and sub-leases will in this case not only impair the wellbeing of a large portion of the people but will in fact leave them virtually defenseless against immanent enemies with designs to deprive them of their lives and safety.

Therefore it is my wish that an extraordinary commission of the military leadership and the officials of the Planning and Logistics Bureau of the Balthorvian Armed Forces should immediately be constituted with unlimited legal authority to review the competence of the military tenures and take whatever measures are appropriate in order to achieve maximum readiness against all foes. I have elected the following officers to serve as the Supreme Council of the commission and possess complete competence to make and enforce any necessary edict in order to bring the leases into conformity with their provisions as recorded in the original receipts and titles of ownership. [He lists 15 different high-ranking officers of the Balthorvian military including Marshal Sergei Shalyapin as the chairman of the extraordinary commission].

To facilitate the free movement of the commission without impediment from any law or statute I have thought it appropriate to grant to the Chairman of the Extraordinary Commission Sergei Shalyapin the title of Master of the Armies as well as the extraordinary title of Imperial Censor, with complete authority to find, uncover, and eliminate whatever irregularities, improprieties, vices, and misconduct may or may exist with respect to the fulfillment of the original military leases. I have also decreed that the General Assembly of the Landholders is an illegal society and there acts, declarations, and decrees are to carry no legal weight whatsoever with any lawful citizen of the realm regardless of their legal or tenurial status.

I am asking all Balthorvians, irrespective of their rank, honor, or title, to present no obstacle and to comply freely with the orders of the Extraordinary Commission in order to put the Balthorvian nation at full strength and ascertain complete readiness in the face of serious danger likely to occur. Let us pray to God and with each other that the combined force of the Balthorvian people will outweigh the menace of enemies and terrorists wherever they may come from and think to strike.


Signed on the 16th of June 2017,

[Erythrean Thebes]

The Port of Prince Kazimir
Yarlov, Balthorvia

Perfected beyond human analysis was the stride and deportment of Lysimachos Deiphonou; just the same was his violent surprise when he recoiled like a man struck and locked himself into a frightened posture at the imposition of almost a dozen pistols and firearms jabbing at him from ferocious armed port security puffed with plates and magazines as if they could have been apprehending a criminal or some petty drug lord. But the Archmaster of the Photidian Band was not a degenerate criminal and he knew this very well - it taxed little of his posture or experience then to blink indignantly at his assailants and shake his head about their spectacle of armed force. "What is the meaning of this?" impatiently he shot back behind a veil of deference to their barbaric attack.

The terminal at Yarlov's primary commercial seaport was decidedly quiet this morning; only a few heads looked on with Balthorvian curiosity at the ring of bald-headed port security engulfing the chute from Pier 18 and the olive-skinned businessman isolated at the entrance kiosk. It was hard to believe that there was even quite enough human presence in this whitewashed contemporary lobby to conjure such a fierce and imposing operation of pedestrian force at any single location - it touched the unreal. "Put your hands in the air and turn around!" their captain shouted behind cool linear shades.

Lysimachos squinted into the outrageous demand. "I am not breaking the law, my ship is here and I am meeting my friend-"

"You are not supposed to dock without clearance from the Port Authority," the captain chastised him with not relent from the application of force, "you cannot enter the country until your cargo has been searched and we are satisfied that there is nothing illegal-"

"You will not trespass on my ship," the Theban applied himself truly for the first time and pumped his fist before his breast pocket, "it is locked and you will not go in there. My cargo was approved weeks ago by the customs office and they are satisfied on this matter."

The captain urged his people forward by his pistol, "bind his hands together!" A little bit he shuffled to the side to try and keep a good line to the intruder. "All imports into the country have to be personally inspected on arrival by the order of the Emperor!"

Boots squeaked on the spotless floor and set upon the Theban dignitary, who seethed at his captors but ultimately did nothing at all except hold his back straight while the guards wrenched his hands and fastened cuffs at his wrists. "I am warning you, you cannot board my ship by any means. You will provoke an incident and you will be sorry that you flouted your own law because you could not properly take instructions."

"You will not bring one single thing into this country which is not inspected by the customs authority and approved for the safety of the Emperor's people," the captain warned to the bristling Theban. "When we are satisfied with you, you will be released and you can go on your way." He nodded grimly to the other guards. "To processing, please. I will come by shortly."

---

The Thebans are not easily bored and they do not especially resent being alone. This fact be surprising to many who hear it since they are in fact known well for being lively and taking intense engagement with others. Indeed to those who are not inclined to them they are often seen as excessively violent or discourteous of boundaries in speech and opinion. Their notorious marketplaces and public streets are even inhospitable to some who cannot adapt their cultural attitude towards competition and disagreement, or equally so to those who are shy or expect that there must be some justification to approach a person. Nevertheless, it is one of their idealized pleasures to be alone and many in their society prefer it as a part of their lifestyle. When they are alone it is just that the play is not on and so there is nothing to act about.

But it had been almost two hours, and if Lysimachos was not yet bored he was admittedly beginning to feel the restlessness within himself which felt some apprehension of a trick or ill-mannered misdeed. He had not thought that this would happen. The Duke Solshu had given no special attention to preparing his arrival and made out nothing to be unusual. There was no reason to think that he would be stuck here for too long but he was in the hands of the Imperial government now and it was an idea of his belief, beyond just real experience, that these types of despotic regimes invented whatever regulations were useful to them and always had some technicality to contradict what was cagily expressed in the letter of the law. And so he knew that it was important to speak as plainly as possible.

The door clicked itself open and a pair of Balthorvians stepped through to see the Theban with his arms-crossed behind the plastic desk; the Chief of Port Security Makariy Viktorov and Leontiy Petrov the Deputy Head of Customs Administration. The Chief made sure that his deputy had closed the door before he faced the incarcerated Theban with an unsympathetic sigh. "Good afternoon Mr. Deiphonou."

The Theban nodded his head gravely.

Mr. Petrov paced to stand in a position just in the corner as his boss loudly pulled out a chair and pushed himself up to the other side of the desk. Curiously lifting his eyebrows the Balthorvian donned a pair of spectacles and flipped open the contents of his manila folder. A peaceable but sort of predatory curiosity hung on his wizened face while he scanned the printed text beneath the Theban's picture taken from his company website. He looked up as if inviting the Greek to share his sentiments but only a stoic stare was forthcoming. The Chief's smile was less forceful now but still rested softly while he flipped through the following page, and then the next, and the one after. When he returned his full attention to Lysimachos it was a kind of private curiosity but fortified by his judgement. "There is a lot to find in your file Mr. Deiphonou..."

"I am not unknown," he admitted.

Mr. Viktorov seemed to grimace. "Mmm, but it is almost troubling...this company of yours - an enomotia?" He shook his head very faintly aghast, "can you explain?"

"It is our thing," Lysimachos said plainly, "in Thebes, these are organizations like mine which offer security expertise to our clients."

The Chief creased his forehead in thinking. "But I almost think the last time I heard that word it was in Xenophon..."

Lysimachos shrugged. "Well it is indeed a Greek word."

Mr. Viktorov's concern was not dispelled when he continued down the page. "Involved in over 40 countries...active in Maxtopia since 2012..." he looked deeply confused at the Theban mercenary, "what business could you possibly have here in Balthorvia?"

It was Lysimachos' turn to look confused again, with impatience. "There is no business - you can see on my visa that I am here to visit with my friend and it is just a personal matter."

The Chief leaned forward by the elbows and he looked the Theban hard in the eyes. "But that is exactly why I know what you are doing here, Mr. Deiphonou, because it is your friend the Duke of Solshu who signed for your cargo - your fifty crates," he hissed, "of farming equipment."

Lysimachos snorted at him. "It is perfectly expedient for me to come and visit my friend and offer to help his business at the same time. My purpose here is not at all different from what I have disclosed to the Customs Administration."

Mr. Viktorov shook his head incredulously. "Have you ever sold a single plough to anyone in your life, Mr. Deiphonou?"

"It is very clear that I am a Theban soldier," the Greek answered testily, "and that I do right by my friends and that I give them what they need to the best of my ability."

The Chief laughed with not-real happiness. "But you as a Theban soldier have nothing else in your ability that you might want to offer to your friend, a traitor and enemy of the people of the nation of Balthorvia?"

"You should not speak about my friend that way," he retorted with a finger lanced at the Chief's unflinching form. "Where I am from we do not even begin to give the name of 'traitor' to people who justly resist the yoke of dominion from men who steal their strength and use them as slaves for an unwelcome purpose."

"It is literally nothing where you come from," the Chief spat back, "nor what you feel or who your friends are." Angrily he sighed and closed the file. "We are going to search your cargo. If there is anything you have not declared, it will be a violation of our laws and we will arrest you. As for your [i[business[/i] here, we will watch you like everyone else and we will know if you do anything at all contrary to what you have told us. So I hope that you will keep in mind, Mr. Deiphonou," the Balthorvian rumbled, "that your friends are very unpopular here; and that, like you, they may soon be gone to other hellish parts of the world and for very good reason." He erupted from his chair and beckoned to the Deputy Customs Administrator. "Let's go - file your report."

And after the slow operation of the automatic door Lysimachos Deiphonou was left alone again.

---

"Step back, step back..."

Lysimachos breezily waved a free hand to his side, the general vicinity of where he knew that his friend the Duke of Solshu and his retinue were standing, watching him steady the frame of his new-issue Balthorvian SV-99 sniper rifle against the blade of his shoulder. He was making adjustments very small, hard to appreciate for an observer, nudging the point of the crosshairs to rest just a hair above the dot of the bullseye placed 1500 meters away beside one of the lime-green lakes of the Duke's precious duck bog. In the force of habit, the Theban's tongue snaked out of his lips just before he committed and he loudly clicked his shot across the soppy field of Kryzbulin-Kaspazod right into the bottom-left corner of his intended target.

A horde of brown ducks quacked mockery at the mercenary as he realized his mistake and the crunch of concentration on his black-bearded face became a regretful grimace of defeat. "Too fancy for me," he joked and handed the rifle back to the Duke's white-gloved attendant.

An intrigued smile piqued the Balthorvian lord's noble face. "But indeed I think you probably killed him."

The Theban was doffing his earmuffs and he replaced his glasses on the enameled table. "So you will be well-ready for the Communists then?"

The Duke of Solshu snorted with great distaste and he averted his eyes. "No," he whined glumly in great pity for himself. "But at least I will be eating a lot of duck while the peasants and play-actors run around pretending 1499."

Lysimachos hissed and he winced at the joke. Sometimes his friend the Duke of Solshu simply missed the point of these things, but it was alright. He was a human being and human beings were capable of anything, very commonly including good taste. "I would not allow you to suffer that, my friend, not by any means." He checked his watch and pointed out the dial to the Balthorvian duke. "It is nearly 6pm already."

The lord started as if he had just been plopped into the situation for the very first time with an underwhelming amount of surprise. "Ah, well then we are late for the table. Vasili," he asked of his aide, "please have everything put away. Lysimachos come," he waved, "I want you to see what my cook found in the market the other day."

The dining room looked especially nice in candlelight; the decor of ivory, wood, and bronze soaked in the color and kept their diversity while even sharing the same sleepy palette. It was indeed a luxurious meal - everything fresh: caviar, octopus, veal, tart, fresh fruit and a lot of shrimp. When at last they had been finished for awhile and they had given up their silverware the Balthorvian duke entered into the business with a consternated sigh. "I did not think that they were going to stop you at the port yesterday," he said, chewing on the surprise. "It is very luckily that they did not find anything."

"Luckily they did not know," Lysimachos agreed darkly, "they did not think to take my watch. I had my crew remove the contraband but of course now I have lost the finest of what I wanted to show you. However," he added, smiling and raising a finger, "I have one or two things that you might like to see." He scooted from his chair and strode to the luggage which was lying in a darkened corner of the room.

The Duke was pleasantly surprised. "They didn't check your luggage?"

"They did of course," the Theban explained, "but they are not the same obsessive checkers that pawed over my precious threshing machines. At least I think so," he mused to himself and took out from his baggage a thick laptop with a bulky frame that had been made sometime in the 1990s. Glancing mischievously at his friend Lysimachos came back to the dinner table and placed the device in front of him. "It will turn on," he continued, showing his friend the screen, "but I doubt it could do even a single thing - look." Pressing some certain keys he detached the keyboard from the much-larger base and pulled it away; underneath there was a pistol and two grenades clamped firmly to the bottom. His friend laughed uproariously at the trick but he was still hanging on the edge of his seat.

Lysimachos wrapped his palm around one of the explosives and, grimacing, he yanked it out; his index finger brushed the pin and he hissed nervously at the Duke. "You will take this on account of that octopus," the Theban joked, turning it back and forth to show him the sleek plastic exterior. "Do you recognize it?"

"Tear gas." The Duke approved.

"Then you are a very sorry peasant," Lysimachos said quite seriously. "It is conventionally explosive. Whoever is close by will be torn to shreds, I guarantee."

The Balthorvian snorted, amazed. "That is truly Greek of you," he said dryly.

The Theban laughed absentmindedly in the course of his business. "This is gas," he said more seriously to his feudal friend, clenching the second grenade in his palm. "Metafentanyl. It will not kill but it is very strong, it is perfect for what you are trying to do."

"It puts them to sleep," the Duke guessed.

"Very much." The mercenary put both hands in his bogus laptop and pried out his last product, a shining black and grey pistol. "What," he facetiously faked a pout to his impassive friend, "you are not impressed with the same 9mm pistol?" He popped the chamber open. "It is a thing of genius and I will not suffer that, Mikhail." He tilted it and showed him the lining. "It is the bullets that are brand new," he slipped one out of his case, "explosive or armor-piercing they will fit right into here." He locked one in and now was holding it up with both hands. "And the Emperor's troops will think that they have you shooting rubber at idiot farmers."

"That is quite good Lysimache," the Duke nodded agreeably.

"I know you are in a hurry..." The Theban pondered to himself and stared off in the distance. "I am sorry, this new security is some problem. You are facing a lot. I can get you plenty of everything but it will take some time since it will have to come in from somewhere different entirely - perhaps I will try and do it through Mizentia. I wanted to give you at least a little for the time being but it could not be so," he sighed to his friend, "my apologies."

The Duke shrugged; the calculations of his fate were somewhere beneath the fingernail he was picking in the lap of his chair. "I think there is in some sense plenty of time and yet also none at all..." he grumbled, half-forgetting his guest, or inviting him into his opaque mind. "Perhaps your see Nicodemus' thinking," he glanced inquisitively and with atmospheric gloom at Lysimachos. "He is trying to pull the tablecloth and touch nothing on the table. He worries about squashing some Knootian day-trader's retirement fund and losing his only chance at a triumph in the Westbund," he said with haughty disdain. "I for one have gladly funneled my money to the West and so he is not wrong - however," the Duke foreboded, "with this latest TV ploy of his I see now that he has even less honor than I thought. He truly understands nothing about Balthorvia. He thinks he will just replace us as if we are on the Fortune 500." He shook his head with a kind of very soft incredulity. "But this is a tablecloth glued on the other side to keep it well in the museum," he could not help but grin at racing so far out with his analogy. "Will it not look as worse for the Western bankers to fork over my money to some 2nd Lieutenant who fired one magazine in al-Hadid and came home with a letter from his stepfather?"

Lysimachos nodded pensively into his sip of the wine. "I think you are right, you are firm where you are. But I think it is for you to really believe that," he added seriously to his friend. "You are buying guns and grenades after all for your whole clique. They have nothing to do with the courts Mikhail and they don't look good in Knootoss."

True to himself, the Duke nodded most agreeably with his Theban friend. "You are quite right. That is the difficulty of the situation."

Cued only by his time-ingrafted knowledge of his feudal master's lifestyle preferences, the servant Vasili approached from the adjacent room and bore into his lord's hands an exquisite violin. "Enough of business," the Duke snorted, and leaning back in his chair he slid the bow weepingly across the strings.

[Balthorvia]

July 3, 2017

His Excellency Diederick Enck
Deputy Minister of Foreign Economic Policy
The Offices of the Staten-Generaal
Hartstad, Dutch Democratic Republic

Mr. Enck,

This is an official request to your office from the Foreign Litigation Department of the Imperial State Ministry of Balthorvia to indicate if a designated date and time can be arranged for you or your staff to confer with a special legation of our administration to clarify the legal status of any financial accounts and property held in Knootoss belonging to certain specific individuals convicted of crimes of lese-majeste under our domestic law. When we originally made the inquiry to you on the 28th of June we included a complete list of the persons with accounts located in the Dutch Democratic Republic who are either guilty of serious treason or, under the law pertaining to national security issued from the Imperial Court on June the 19th, are indefinitely detained and separated from their holdings until their status under the laws concerning treason or the feudal fees is confirmed by the military commission incorporated by the Balthorvian Emperor. At this time we have compiled our evidence and documentation for your approval and we are prepared to proceed. We are asking you to establish a definite meeting between our staff to begin going through the overseas accounts as soon as possible.

In the interim, his majesty the Emperor is asking you to freeze all of the accounts which we submitted to the Ministry of Foreign Economic Policy. We thought you were satisfied with the documentation which we enclosed in our memo on the 28th of June. We have enclosed it again and we are asking you to go ahead or at least to report on the situation in regards to the position of the Knootian law vis-a-vis these requests. If there are any concerns with the Dutch Democratic Republic we think it is just another good reason to try and secure a conference between our departments as soon as possible. We are plainly convinced that the accounts and properties of these traitors are legitimately forfeited to the state per the laws established to govern overseas property and financial holdings in force for all Balthorvian citizens since 1993.

It is because his Majesty the Emperor greatly values the good faith which exists between himself and the Dutch Democratic Republic that we are at great pains to leave the resolution of this issue with you and cause no disturbance for the men and women of Knootoss who protect the work and livelihood of their citizens. We have tried to express to you our disinterest in disturbing the existing business between Knootoss and Balthorvia. We believe that there are solutions which will leave the money intact but allow it to change hands or submit to legal protections which can assuage any fears of ours that it could be stolen from his Majesty the Emperor or used to harm his interests if left in the possession of lowly characters of known ill-repute. We are sure this is lawful. Please, we hope that you will be forthcoming with us and that the imprecision of trying to memo back and forth can be done away with by a direct settlement of the issue.


Respectfully yours,

Tomas Novotny
Deputy Minister of Foreign Litiation

[Kartlis]

Trade Economy Bank Headquarters, Mtskheta, Principality of Kartlis

In most ways, Kartlis was a tiny backwater state with little real diplomatic power or economic might. It was in that unusual zone where it was not quite an eastern state, nor a fully western state; it was a mountainous space formerly dominated by colonial powers and impoverished by poor economic management.

It did have something the other majors states of the Western Atlantic didn't have, though perhaps it would be correct to say it lacked something they didn't. In the late 1990s, the Kartlian government liberalized the byzantine banking laws in the country, allowing greater foreign investment and integration of the nation's financial industry with the rest of the world. What they did not do was follow through on a tranche of promised ethics and transparency laws that had been agreed to as a condition of greater foreign involvement and participation in the international banking system.

On the one hand, this was a bad thing. Most Kartlian banks became, over the next two decades, largely opaque clearinghouses for money launderers and tax cheats. Daytan drug money and illegal firearms payments, stolen Zamimbian treasury funds, slush funds for Knootian executives, and tax-avoidance profit swaps from Caldan and Snefaldian companies were all regular orders of business for a cadre of banks that amounted to little more than an office plate and a one-room office on a side street in Mtskheta. On the other hand, this was a good thing: Kartlis was just the right amount of unimportant to make its essentially illegal banking practices an inconvenient problem for other nations, and it filled an important niche required by most capitalist states looking for a way to make more money without paying taxes on it.

It didn't hurt that Kartlian officials were also the perfect amount of moral and corrupt; all it took was some fancy dinners, nice whisky, and vacation junkets to Alekthos or Mont de la Lune and they'd grease the wheels for you. What they wouldn't do, however, was handle anything that was so criminal or inflammatory it could cause an international incident. They steered clear of terror groups, or other generally outrageous and potentially destabilizing business.

The Trade Economy Bank, however, did not have such scruples. Grigol Mikeladze, who held the lofty titles of CEO, Bank President, Chief Strategy Officer, and Chairman of the Board, looked more like a cab driver than a man who controlled a major player in international shadow banking, always wearing the same faded plaid jacket and dirty tie to the office. The office, incidentally, was a third-floor suite in a dilapidated 1970s office building on Kobareti Street; its neighbors included a cash-for-gold office, a a drunken private detective with no clients, and a third-rate accountancy firm.

When Mikeladze trudged into the office at a respectable 10 AM, his assistant, a thin, balding man named Nikoloz Gloveli was already there. The Trade Economy Bank was basically the two men, plus an IT guy to maintain the network of always-running computers that managed the constant flow of transfers and deposits between their clients. Usually on mornings like this, Mikeladze poured himself a cup of bad coffee and settled down to read the paper in his office chair, while Gloveli ran data checks.

Today, he was not in the mood. His contact in the Treasury Ministry had passed him something that gave him pause. His man inside was not that well-placed but he had good connections and Mikeladze always treated him well. The Balthorvians were pressing the Knootian government to freeze the funds of prominent... traitors? terrorists? Either way, enemies of the state. Mikeladze didn't know and didn't care how his contact had gotten the communique, but even translated into Georgian the displeased tenor of the Balthorvian government was unmistakeable. He wondered how much certain wanted individuals would be willing to pay off the top in order to prevent their funds from being taken.

Now, there were downsides to what he was thinking. Sure, they did some laundering for Daytan cadres, and Pantocratorian nobles trying to hide their indiscretions, and even held funds for some people in Caldas who, well, if you knew who they were, your eyes would bug out. Mikeladze thought about it some more, absently pushing his combover around on his head, then finally smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Gloveli, don't we know a man in Balthorvia?"

[Flower nation6]

Her name was Diyaa Purwar – a young woman not more than fourteen years old, from the poorest districts of Qala’aa. On the morning of December 26th she left her home for her tutor’s house as she had countless times before. As she crossed Checkpoint 72A into the madrassa district, a Balthorvian guard stopped her on suspicions of smuggling and insisted she remove her habit for a search. When she refused, a struggle broke out, and in the commotion she was struck in the head by a police baton and lost consciousness. At 11:43 AM she was admitted to the emergency care ward at the local clinic.

By noon, she was dead.

Her death sparked a wave of grief and outrage across the entire city. Shops and vendors closed their businesses in a display of mourning. Balthorvian soldiers on patrol were pelted with stones and rotten produce as they went about their rounds. The local imams called for a mass protest – news of the upcoming demonstration was spread by cell phone and over the internet, until finally on December 30th a massive throng of protestors had convened in the old city square, waving banners and chanting anti-Balthorvian slogans toward the soldiers that had arrived to monitor them.

The demands of the crowd were nebulous and ill-defined. Some were calling for the removal of Balthorvian troops for al-Hadid. Most were simply venting their frustration at the foreign regime which continued to abuse them. Very few actually desired or expected any form of violence – but the spirit and emotion for conflict was there, and it was all that the agents of al-Saif required.

---

“Noisy bunch,” Private Adrian observed, passing a cigarette to his comrade as he watched the mob of protestors scream and shout. “Kinda wish I could understand what they’re saying.”

His friend snorted and spit the taste of tobacco to the ground. “Doesn’t matter,” he dismissed curtly. “They’re just bitter about stuff that happened hundreds of years ago – sore losers,” he added venomously. “Bet they’d miss us when they all had to start eating dirt again; you know, I think-“

But what his friend thought about anything would never be heard, for before he could speak a loud roar erupted from the mob in front of them, and Adrian watched in stupefied horror as a clear glass bottle arced toward the line of Balthorvian soldiers, flames sputtering out in every direction as it descended. Adrian’s friend fell to the ground screaming as the fire rose up to consume him – but he did not scream so loud that the orders of his commander could not be heard over the din.

“Shoot goddamn you, shoot!” the lieutenant cried, and at his command a hail of bullets spat out from the line of frightened soldiers to rake over the mob of their furious tormentors. Adrian shouldered his weapon and fired blindly into the crowd as even more improvised grenades cartwheeled toward his ranks.

Someone shouted “retreat!” and without further coaxing Adrian began to quickly shuffle backward toward the jeeps behind him, still wildly firing in every direction. The mob, sensing weakness, seemed to tense up for the briefest moment before like a massive sea they broke ranks and charged the Balthorvians, many wielding nothing more than stones and broken pieces of tile in their hands.

Genuinely panicking now, Adrian leaped into the back of the nearest jeep and nearly fell out again as the driver floored the vehicle to top speed and took off down the nearest road. Behind them, a sickening crash was heard as the mob managed to surround one of the vehicles and roll it over onto its side. Adrian reluctantly watched out of the corner of his eye as the crowd dragged one struggling soldier after another out of the wreck and fiercely bludgeoned them to death.

“Command, do you read!?” their sergeant yelled as the vehicle zoomed past waves of angry citizens. “We are returning to base, the crowd at the square is out of control!”

Before he had even finished speaking the radio came to life, a terrified-sounding voice filling the cabin. “Negative, the barracks is overrun – repeat, barracks is overrun, you must get out of the city!”

No sooner had the news been delivered then the jeep went around a corner and straight into an improvised roadblock; burning tires and overturned barrels littered the road – the peasants guarding the checkpoint shouted for help and began pelting the Balthorvians with rocks and pebbles.

“Turn around!” the commander ordered rather needlessly, “don’t let off the gas until we’re out the gates – Adrian, look alive man!”

The soldier followed his commander’s finger to see a disheveled Haddite clinging to the back of their vehicle, twisting and squirming as he tried to board the jeep. Frantically he wound back and planted his boot straight into the hijacker’s face, sending him flying with a theatrical cry. A dozen of his comrades sprinted to try and duplicate his feat; ready this time, Adrian leveled his rifle and began to mow them down.

He became so focused, in fact, that he was shocked to suddenly discover that their jeep was comfortably racing out the city gates and down the open desert road, the roars and shouts of battle fading to nothing more than a distant rustling. When they had put a reasonable distance between themselves and the chaos, Adrian lowered his gun and allowed him a moment’s respite. “When can we expect reinforcements?” he asked of the sergeant.

“No reinforcements,” he replied sternly, turning up the volume on his radio as he poured over a disorganized pile of old maps. “We’re gonna be falling back to Mahaat to regroup and await further orders.”

“What – we can’t leave man, those guys killed our friends, they have their bodies and everything!”

The sergeant sighed irritably. “We’ll get our dead and wounded back, Private, relax.”

“Yeah but only after they loot them and cut them up or whatever these guys-“

Adrian froze as his sergeant gave him a withering glare. “That’s nonsense talk and you know it. This is just another riot and these ‘guys’ are just another angry band of farmers who’ll take their comp money and shut up. Now sit down.”

The soldier did as he was ordered, grumbling as he turned back to look at the ancient city. Although the sounds of combat had ceased, thick clouds of smoke wafted up from behind the soaring walls – Adrian could see the Haddite savages dancing around the flames like savages in his mind, burning the Balthorvian standards and celebrating their meaningless victory. Just another riot, he reminded himself smugly, and he knew it would be only days before the Imperial flag flew over the mountain citadel once again.

---

“I have never given a speech before…”

Marwan smiled kindly at Tamir and put his arm around the young man’s shoulder, guiding him up the long steps to the top of the city walls. “It is as easy as talking to anyone else,” he assured, and then remembering the man’s inexperience with people, decided on a different approach. “You represent the hope that burns in the heart of every Haddite on this day – you are a symbol of the point of light which now shines at the end of our long darkness. It does not matter what you say, so long as you take care to say what you feel.”

Finally they reached the top of the sun-bleached battlements – so high that the roaring of the wind could be heard as it passed through the mountain peaks. Beneath them, like a sea of multi-colored grains, stretched the victorious citizens of Qala’aa - awaiting their mysterious speaker. With a last nod, Marwan urged his friend forward and mouthed, good luck.

Tamir took a deep breath and stepped atop the crenellation, balancing himself with his arms. After a nauseous pause he opened his mouth, but his voice caught treacherously in his throat. He began to tremble – from behind him, Marwan whispered, “relax.”

The man sighed and tried again. “My fellow countrymen,” he began, this time loudly and clearly, “today is a day of victory. It is a day that marks revenge for the atrocities of our supposed Imperial overlords. It is a day on which we have demonstrated that the Balthorvians can be defeated by Haddite arms. But above all, it is a day of awakening – for our nation, and its people.”

Tamir felt some of his color return; the words began to flow more freely. “Our country is rich and plentiful, with fertile fields and exotic treasures. Yet for many centuries it has been poor, because it was bereft of a single thing – hope. The chains of our slavery had been upon us for so long that we could not imagine a day when we might not be burdened by them any longer. But I stand here today to tell you that there is hope for al-Hadid.”

Tamir wobbled and nearly lost his balance in surprise at the massive cheer which erupted at his words – a goofy grin split his face as he reveled in the effect of his words. He cleared his throat and prepared to continue. “The Balthorvians think that they have broken our spirits – that all the traces of our former greatness have been stamped out, but they are wrong!” With a mighty swoosh he drew his sword from its scabbard and held it up toward the scorching sun.

“I am Tamir Ahad ibn’Souq,” he cried, “the right-born Sultan of al-Hadid – and this Sword of Uthman,” he pointed with pious reverence, “is my mantle – the instrument by which we shall make good on the promise of Firouz al-Aziz, and cut forever the bonds of our servitude!”

At this Marwan stepped to the battlements, throwing his arms out to the cheering crowd. “The time is now!” he declared. “With the help of the patriotic masses of the nation, al-Saif will liberate the country from the Balthorvian oppressors, and restore the glory of this most proud land!”

That night the Balthorvian state media printed a single one-line news item about the uprising. It read “Minor Riot in Qala’aa”, and nothing more.

Well I was in a group and we were almost about to get assanated by another group just ask thanks giving dinner.

[Balthorvia]

Trade Economy Bank Headquarters, Mtskheta, Principality of Kartlis

In most ways, Kartlis was a tiny backwater state with little real diplomatic power or economic might. It was in that unusual zone where it was not quite an eastern state, nor a fully western state; it was a mountainous space formerly dominated by colonial powers and impoverished by poor economic management.

It did have something the other majors states of the Western Atlantic didn't have, though perhaps it would be correct to say it lacked something they didn't. In the late 1990s, the Kartlian government liberalized the byzantine banking laws in the country, allowing greater foreign investment and integration of the nation's financial industry with the rest of the world. What they did not do was follow through on a tranche of promised ethics and transparency laws that had been agreed to as a condition of greater foreign involvement and participation in the international banking system.

On the one hand, this was a bad thing. Most Kartlian banks became, over the next two decades, largely opaque clearinghouses for money launderers and tax cheats. Daytan drug money and illegal firearms payments, stolen Zamimbian treasury funds, slush funds for Knootian executives, and tax-avoidance profit swaps from Caldan and Snefaldian companies were all regular orders of business for a cadre of banks that amounted to little more than an office plate and a one-room office on a side street in Mtskheta. On the other hand, this was a good thing: Kartlis was just the right amount of unimportant to make its essentially illegal banking practices an inconvenient problem for other nations, and it filled an important niche required by most capitalist states looking for a way to make more money without paying taxes on it.

It didn't hurt that Kartlian officials were also the perfect amount of moral and corrupt; all it took was some fancy dinners, nice whisky, and vacation junkets to Alekthos or Mont de la Lune and they'd grease the wheels for you. What they wouldn't do, however, was handle anything that was so criminal or inflammatory it could cause an international incident. They steered clear of terror groups, or other generally outrageous and potentially destabilizing business.

The Trade Economy Bank, however, did not have such scruples. Grigol Mikeladze, who held the lofty titles of CEO, Bank President, Chief Strategy Officer, and Chairman of the Board, looked more like a cab driver than a man who controlled a major player in international shadow banking, always wearing the same faded plaid jacket and dirty tie to the office. The office, incidentally, was a third-floor suite in a dilapidated 1970s office building on Kobareti Street; its neighbors included a cash-for-gold office, a a drunken private detective with no clients, and a third-rate accountancy firm.

When Mikeladze trudged into the office at a respectable 10 AM, his assistant, a thin, balding man named Nikoloz Gloveli was already there. The Trade Economy Bank was basically the two men, plus an IT guy to maintain the network of always-running computers that managed the constant flow of transfers and deposits between their clients. Usually on mornings like this, Mikeladze poured himself a cup of bad coffee and settled down to read the paper in his office chair, while Gloveli ran data checks.

Today, he was not in the mood. His contact in the Treasury Ministry had passed him something that gave him pause. His man inside was not that well-placed but he had good connections and Mikeladze always treated him well. The Balthorvians were pressing the Knootian government to freeze the funds of prominent... traitors? terrorists? Either way, enemies of the state. Mikeladze didn't know and didn't care how his contact had gotten the communique, but even translated into Georgian the displeased tenor of the Balthorvian government was unmistakeable. He wondered how much certain wanted individuals would be willing to pay off the top in order to prevent their funds from being taken.

Now, there were downsides to what he was thinking. Sure, they did some laundering for Daytan cadres, and Pantocratorian nobles trying to hide their indiscretions, and even held funds for some people in Caldas who, well, if you knew who they were, your eyes would bug out. Mikeladze thought about it some more, absently pushing his combover around on his head, then finally smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Gloveli, don't we know a man in Balthorvia?"

Ministry of Justice
Spopomir, Balthorvia

In an ordinarily vacant room a long red carpet had been laid out from the looming wooden doors to the high rotunda established for the fifteen members of the Extraordinary Military Commission of Titles, Fees and Honorifics, the length of which was flanked on either side by many folding chairs packed with commenters and spectators alike. Cameras flashed and journalists crept around in search for the perfect angle until the room was pulsating like the floor of a seedy club in the poorer district. But the whole spectacle was carefully encircled by a ring of solemn-faced Balthorvian soldiers, spaced evenly to keep an eye on the proceedings and guarding the doors.

Corporal Artemy Maksimov took great pride like the rest of his comrades in sparing absolutely no interest or attention to this showcase whatsoever, like many of them believing that his lack of culpability to these carnal shows was no small testament to his manliness and superiority to the corrupted masses of the nation. Indeed it allowed him to exude a fearsomeness which he greatly prized. And it had been made clear to him that there was good reason for being extra alert, since in a matter of moments the nation would begin to purge itself of the career criminals in the decadent aristocracy and restore true meaning to the system of service that was supposed to provide strength for the empire.

But incredibly his cellular phone buzzed – there was no telling how clearly was his embarrassment and worry at this unprofessional slip. Very quickly he slipped through the door behind him and stepped into the vacant staircase; when he took out his phone there was a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach. The contact, “Gloveli”, brought to mind at once a terribly unfortunate situation his father had encountered trying to finance their farm and a terribly bad decision the old man had made to try and escape it – and now long after Artemy was Mr. Maksimov, the man of the house, he was always fearing this barbarian banker and his not-entirely-incredible threats about the various forms of repossession he thought he could exact from the 24 year old army officer.

Unthinkingly, praying for a quick resolution before the trials began, Artemy answered the call and put the phone to his ear. “Who is this?”

[Kartlis]

"Your friend Nikoloz, Artemy Alexandrovich," Gloveli responded, for all intents sounding sincere and friendly. "I am sure you are very busy, of course, I do not want to impose. Your mother, she is keeping well? On the lovely family farm? I think it is some time since you are sending me pictures of the lovely place."

In the Mtskheta office, Mikeladze chuckled quietly to himself as he listened to Gloveli rattle on. Grigol had always just been a businessman, albeit a crooked and conniving one, but Nikoloz had gotten his start as a loan shark in the bars and back-alleys of Batumi, on the eastern coast. They were distant cousins, by marriage, and Grigol had sold him on the idea of running a banking operation in the mid-90s, when the laws changed and people wanted to start making some money. The two men decided some money wasn't enough; they wanted a lot of it. Loan sharking was small potatoes now, but still useful for finding important people with a problem and making them helpful.

Gloveli went on, talking in a roundabout way. "In any case, Artemy Alexandrovich, it is my niece Tamar's 16th birthday soon, and you had promised to send her something nice, yes? She called me to say this, "Uncle Nikoloz, you must get Mr. Maksimov to send me one of those nice dresses that I saw in the Spopomir magazines" and what can a good Uncle say? It would be a very good thing for you to do for her, I would be so happy. But you must hurry, her birthday comes so quickly- ah, they grow up fast, yes? But you are busy so I let you go and send you a note with the style that she wants and how to send it. It is really so important, she would be so pleased, and I would be a very grateful man if you did this. But you must go, you are important man!"

He hung up the phone with a smile on his thin face, and Mikeladze laughed louder this time. Maksimov would receive shortly a message from a secure email address, routed through eight different countries and servers, and including a truncated hyperlink and password to a secure server registered in Mont de la Lune. The message on that page indicated that certain frozen funds, or funds not yet frozen but in danger of finding themselves frozen, from certain individuals in Balthorvia, would perhaps be safer deposited in key accounts in outside of the Empire. If that didn't happen, well, then, life could become very hard for Mr. Maksimov and his lovely, elderly mother.

[Balthorvia]

"Your friend Nikoloz, Artemy Alexandrovich," Gloveli responded, for all intents sounding sincere and friendly. "I am sure you are very busy, of course, I do not want to impose. Your mother, she is keeping well? On the lovely family farm? I think it is some time since you are sending me pictures of the lovely place."

In the Mtskheta office, Mikeladze chuckled quietly to himself as he listened to Gloveli rattle on. Grigol had always just been a businessman, albeit a crooked and conniving one, but Nikoloz had gotten his start as a loan shark in the bars and back-alleys of Batumi, on the eastern coast. They were distant cousins, by marriage, and Grigol had sold him on the idea of running a banking operation in the mid-90s, when the laws changed and people wanted to start making some money. The two men decided some money wasn't enough; they wanted a lot of it. Loan sharking was small potatoes now, but still useful for finding important people with a problem and making them helpful.

Gloveli went on, talking in a roundabout way. "In any case, Artemy Alexandrovich, it is my niece Tamar's 16th birthday soon, and you had promised to send her something nice, yes? She called me to say this, "Uncle Nikoloz, you must get Mr. Maksimov to send me one of those nice dresses that I saw in the Spopomir magazines" and what can a good Uncle say? It would be a very good thing for you to do for her, I would be so happy. But you must hurry, her birthday comes so quickly- ah, they grow up fast, yes? But you are busy so I let you go and send you a note with the style that she wants and how to send it. It is really so important, she would be so pleased, and I would be a very grateful man if you did this. But you must go, you are important man!"

He hung up the phone with a smile on his thin face, and Mikeladze laughed louder this time. Maksimov would receive shortly a message from a secure email address, routed through eight different countries and servers, and including a truncated hyperlink and password to a secure server registered in Mont de la Lune. The message on that page indicated that certain frozen funds, or funds not yet frozen but in danger of finding themselves frozen, from certain individuals in Balthorvia, would perhaps be safer deposited in key accounts in outside of the Empire. If that didn't happen, well, then, life could become very hard for Mr. Maksimov and his lovely, elderly mother.

The sun was shining, but except for a thin sliver which came through a gap in the faded old window shades of the Maksimov family house, the room where Artemy sat sprawled in his hardwood dining chair was almost totally dark. It stank, and not just because of the dirty dishes his mother had left piled in their sink; there was also the stench of vodka, very heavy and drenched on the young man’s anguished breath. It was actually a little before noon but the boy still was not fully dressed, and he sat with his face either in his hands or staring blankly at the kitchen floor. He had been like this all the night, since he had read the email from Mr. Mikeladze.

Beneath the motionless trance which helplessness had cast upon the young Balthorvian soldier, a frightful hatred churned and swelled within him. All of his manly virtue was twisted in objection to the outrageous last threat of his father’s bank-hound: “There are people who will pay me back if you are not going to do it yourself.” In truth the young man had fired off a venomous, frothing reply but the reality of his situation prevented him from truly consummating his miserable situation and it was not sent.

Still he wanted to lash out, maybe break something, but it would be no use. Breathing vodka into his own fingers he peeped foggy eyes through the door frame at the end of the hall. In the darkness his mother slept a log and the old quilt and bedsheets rose and fell with the breathing of her plump person – every now and then a fan would blow the grey hairs at the crown of her head.

“Tchyo za ga`lima,” he spat to himself and he kicked a bottle of milk as he stood.

---

Ministry of Justice

Sergeant Feofan Kozlov saw everyone who passed him at his junction of the hallway but it was not until Corporal Alexandrovich was approaching his post at Room 5B that he started to attention and fired off a crisp salute. “Sergeant Kozlov sir-“

“I need to speak to the prisoner,” he explained rather curtly, stopping just short of the lower-ranking guard. A sealed manila envelope was tucked tight underneath his left arm.

The sergeant kept his hand at the brim of his hat. “Sir only the prosecutor is supposed to enter the interrogation room-“

Corporal Alexandrovich raised up the bundle he was carrying with both hands – it had a large label on the front which described its contents as legal forms to constitute the statement of the accused. “He needs to give his signature so the trial can proceed.”

The sergeant looked at the label and back at the face of Corporal Alexandrovich with a very unrevealing expression. “Alright, in you go,” he said, and with a flick of his wrist he swiped his badge against the door and pushed it open.

Artemy stepped inside and carefully shut the door behind himself. He turned back and met the scowling glare of the man he knew was Yevgeniy Isidor Utkin, the Duke of Oderfol. Sighing to himself, the Corporal approached the interrogation table. “Your Exc-“

“I told you,” the Duke snarled in an unexpectedly deep voice, “I’m not saying another damn thing a-“

“Shhh!” Quite placidly but sternly the Corporal put a finger to his own lips and gave the lord an almost chiding sort of look. “We already have everything we need from you Mr. Utkin.”

The Duke made no further attempts at ruckus but he long regarded his captor with a cold and beady glare. “Then what is it?” he demanded at last of the silence.

“I need the name of your chief accountant Mr. Utkin.”

“You have that already,” the Duke shot back warily.

“This is not part of the investigation,” answered Artemy, probably more forcefully than he would have liked. He ground his jaw trying to find the right words for this damnable game. “I represent somebody who is trying to help you keep what is rightfully yours.”

The Duke was on the verge of ridiculing him at first, probably as some terrible inquisitor by the scorn which was hanging on the edge of his features; but when he saw the terrible discomfort contorted on the young officer’s amateurish face it turned into an almost miffed acquiescence. “What are you some kind of traitor?”

Artemy swallowed, “yes. I represent the Trade Economy Bank.”

The Duke nodded very coolly. “You want my money…“

“We want to protect your money before it is confiscated by the Imperial government,” Artemy corrected him. “Which it absolutely will be, if your testimony is found to constitute a breach of your oath before the Council of the Commission.”

The Duke could not prevent himself from snorting at this impudent threat. “And how do I know that I will ever see my money again?”

“There are no banks which throw away their clients’ money, Mr. Utkin,” Corporal Alexandrovich corrected him. “Or I hardly think there would be any banks at all.”

The Duke scowled at his bizarre platitude on life. “He is a smart man – you will not be able to fool him. His name is-“

“Write it down,” Artemy insisted and pulled out a pen and little slip of paper from the folder, pushing it across the table.

The Duke have him a look but he quickly scratched off the fellow’s name in flowing cursive letters. Artemy took it and stuffed it inside his satchel. Standing, he offered his gloved hand to the noble lord. “I will see what I can do for you Mr. Utkin.”

The Duke smiled pedantically at his offer. “I hope so officer.”

Grimacing to himself, Corporal Alexandrovich turned and strode out of the interrogation room. The sergeant outside the door snapped to attention again. “Corporal Alexandrovich-“

“He’s all set. As you were sergeant,” and he stormed away down the hall.

Part 1, the rest is coming

[Balthorvia]

The Extraordinary Commission issues a Receipt of Tenure granting an estate outside the capital to a retired Air Force captain

This receipt was a type of document issued by the Extraordinary Military Commission during their review of the feudal leases in the Balthorvian Revolution. These deeds were issued to distinguished members of the Balthorvian military chosen to replace landholders who were found criminally negligent in the terms and obligations of their leases. By emphasizing the legal responsibilities to provide soldiers and defend the realm, the Emperor knew he had a damning case and tried to impugn the valor of the elite oligarchs and replace them with a loyal and professional class of military elites who would have the endorsement of the nation's pugnatious commoners. It would later become clear that Nicodemus also hoped these purges would segue the nation into a industrial drive that would inflate the realm's military-industrial capacity and ramp up the armed forces to try and repulse Daytanistan from the Middle Sea.

LET IT BE KNOWN, by the authority of the Extraordinary Military Commission of Titles, Fees, and Honorifics, per the instructions of His Excellency the Emperor Nicodemus, in confirmation of the verdict submitted by the Commission on June 22 in the case of the Barony of Chistavoda, the aforesaid land is hereby alienated from its unlawful holder Martin Sokolov, and transferred into the custody of Isay Kuznetsov, to manage it at the service of His Imperial Majesty the Balthorvian Emperor, in the understanding that he will flawlessly perform the associated responsibilities to protect and serve the realm.

BE IT UNDERSTOOD, by the "Barony of Chistavoda", in confirmation of the initial deed made by the Emperor Arkady I to Dmitri Sokolov, this title is meant to encompass all buildings and facilities, the manor of Chistavodyagorod, as well as the whole expanse of the soil and water which is demarcated in the north by the 5th Imperial Highway, in the east by the boundary of Lake Blenshod, in the south by the woods which divides this property from the Barony of Ysmir, and in the west by the fence which is reputedly established at the boundary line between this property and the Vinidomir Oblast.

The lessee henceforth shall enjoy the honor of 'Baron of Chistavoda', with the right to be addressed as 'His Grace' or 'His Lordship', as well as to wear the signet ring and cuff-links and to wear a crown of not more than 2 oz of gold or silver. He is to hold in perpetuity the oath of every subtenant and resident of the manor. Likewise he shall give solemn oath and the laying of hands to his legal overlord the Count of Spopomir to serve and protect his liege in perpetuity as condition of his holding on the land.

We hereby decree that henceforth and for all future purposes Isay Kuznetsov is to be legally considered as the Baron of Chistavoda, serving for this purpose in any and all existing contracts, leases, and obligations connected to that lordship, and that henceforth this title will pass in his family by way of inheritance according to the standing legislation on wills and trusts. Moreover he assumes all fiefs connected to the property incorporating their allegiance exactly as it was given in the reign of Mr, Soklov.

[...]

The lessee shall be responsible for appointing magistrates of the manor to collect the annual revenues in observation of the dictates of His Imperial Majesty. After paying to the accounts of His Majesty the Emperor and His Eminence the Count of Spopomir the lessee will be permitted to take one-tenth, 10%, in taxes as his revenue from the land and crafts. He retains the right to pay only corporate tax on any surplus products sold independently of the harvest as part of the private industry of the commune.

Required as a condition of his tenure in the land, the lessee is required to supply the defense forces of His Imperial Majesty the Balthorvian Emperor, maintaining at his disposal either no less than 35 million $ as soccage or verifying with the Treasury of His Imperial Majesty a production capacity of at least 100,000 man hours per annum applicable to defense production.

[...]

A remit of one-twentieth, or 5%, from revenues owed to the Imperial Treasury is granted to the lessee if he may verify with the Treasury that he has at least 50,000 man hours per annum dedicated to the production of defense services.

[Balthorvia]

"This is a load of FUCKING bullshit man," spat Artemy as he threw his fist through the decrepit wall of his family house squelching the aging flower wallpaper and bursting a cloud of vaporized plaster to lap at his hysterical fury. The room spun around him menacing the weight of doom and failure for his wicked insolence, portending the final seal of the misfortune which extinguished forever his short life of honor. What's wrong little Artemy? he remembered Gloveli's horribly gentle voice cooing over his despair You don't like your mother sleeping without the cockroaches today? "I'm gonna fucking murder you bitch!" he screamed, at the edge of rage-induced madness, "you fucking dickbaaag!" And like a frenzied bull he threw off his control and he leaped at the old dresser in the hallway and threw it to the ground.

He pounded himself down at the kitchen table, the wooden fixtures rattled like under a quake and it shook the ceiling. With his face hyperventilating into his hands, the energy of total insanity like his skin blistered from the inside, like his mind, his feelings were entirely drowning him, and he faded away until he was only the word of thought in the back of his mind, and he tried everything he could to run himself through all of his available options - but his ideas were totally blank, a vacuum of doom. And then two hard pounding knocks filled the vacuum.

Boom-Boom! Artemy stalked himself to the door. But when he flung it open, it was the military...

[Part 3 Next]

[Kartlis]

Mtskheta, Kartlis

The raid came almost without warning; Nikoloz Gloveli had stepped out to buy a soft drink, had seen an unusual amount of unmarked cars on the street for that time of day and quietly and slowly went back inside and upstairs to the dingy offices that constituted the Trade Economy Bank.

"Grigol, I think we are going to have visitors-" he managed to get say to his partner in the cheap plaid suitjacket before the office was swarmed by the police shouting "This is a raid!." They were the local Mtskheta Police's fraud bureau, and made a big show of pulling open drawers and throwing papers about. In all honesty it didn't matter much what they did; the office looked about as dirty as it had before they'd arrived. Gloveli and Mikeladze, as well as the homely secretary they employed, a skinny, sallow-faced woman named Olga who looked about fifteen years older than her actual age of 25, calmly sat chain-smoking cheap Zamimbian cigarettes that were more cardboard than anything else on a patched pleather couch in the corner.

After a good thirty minutes, a ferret-faced police sergeant whose facial hair resembled the offspring of a Hitler mustache and a Van Dyke (and did nothing for his face besides) strode over and pretended to growl at them.

"Ok, you three, so you're clean this time! We're keeping our eye on you though, so don't get any funny ideas."

"Are you going to help us clean up, Sergeant Abashidze?" Mikeladze asked with a chuckle, standing up and patting his pockets for a packet of cigarettes as the other police filed out. The Sergeant barked a sharp, unpleasant laugh, and turned to leave. Mikeladze followed him down the stairs, and stood outside the building.

"Have a cigarette, Sergeant. For your troubles." Mikeladze said pleasantly, lighting one for himself before handing the packet to the officer and lighting one for him. He eyed the sergeant blankly. "Keep them. They're Snefaldian," he said, turning to go down the street to the convenience store.

Abashidze blew a plume of bluish smoke into the air and grunted, turning to leave. In his squad car, he carefully opened the space between the cardboard package and the cellophane, removing a small piece of paper bearing a series of numbers; a bank routing number, a PIN, and an amount of laris big enough to pay a sergeant's rent for five months. They cigarettes were definitely not Snefaldian, either.

With a satisfied chuckle, the sergeant drove off, leaving the street as abandoned as it had been an hour ago. He had not noticed one car remaining. He also hadn't noticed the two men sitting in the car, and certainly not that they had been taking photos of him with a telephoto lens. There was also no way he could have known they were from the Ministry of Internal Affair's Special Tasks Department, or of the months-long wiretapping of the bank, and now the knowledge of definite corruption within the local police forces.

Sergeant Abashidze could also not have known they were looking specifically for funds that had come out of Balthorvia and into Kartlis, and then to parts unknown. He wouldn't find out until the day he was arrested on thirty-four counts of bribery and public corruption, a day the agents of the Special Tasks Department looked forward to with great relish.

[Balthorvia]

(OOC: A lot of time has now elapsed in real life, probably more than comprises the recent events of this RP. For simplicity's sake, since we are coming close to the same dates in RL, albeit a year later, I am going to negate the passage of any significant time and continue from the middle of the summer, in early July).

Spopomir

In the typology of political science, regimes pass away in predictable ways. They are undone horizontally, by a power struggle between armed groups, or they collapse vertically, when the thread between the rulers and the ruled loses its strength, and the will of the regime ceases to pass for currency in the esteem of the real people who inhabit the country. There was still as of yet no strong indication that the Balthorvian oligarchs would take forceful steps to halt the reign of zealous Emperor Nicodemus, nor had the rule of law been divorced of its impact despite the Emperor's liberalizing steps; without discrimination, Imperial soldiers had repeatedly intervened themselves at the site of public disturbances, to prevent either noble or commoner from venting any part of the contemptful animosity they held for the other. Still, in an eerie calm, without the usual warning signs, the reign of Emperor Nicodemus was approaching a crisis. The money, the resources, and the good-faith participation which the oligarch class possessed was increasingly withheld, and with little fanfare. The Imperial government, having absolutely zero desire to point out their grave infirmity, made only very circumspect reference to the boycott, and never admitted their obstacles in overcoming it. Somehow, without any admission, the wills of the Emperor and his cantankerous circle of nobles were on a trajectory to collide, with the potential to collapse the orderly operation of almost everything in the country.

It was something cliche of revolutions, but also unique in itself. If civil war was like a tremor within a nation, and revolution was like falling apart, the mood which gripped the Balthorvian capital in early July was sort of akin to the country holding its breath. The optimism which Nicodemus tried to convey was palpable in the streets, also logged with sunshine and humidity as they were, covered in a thin film of smog because of the frenzied activity of the city's many state-owned factories. The slight glaze in the air added the impression of a great expanse between stern Artemy and the posse of university students he saw marching down the opposite side of the street. By the order of His Imperial Majesty, all university students in Balthorvia were exempted from their final examinations as long as the General Assembly of the Landholders continued the freeze they had put on all labor expenses including most hiring for skilled jobs. Only a few could get by, if they checked out as being devout opponents of the regime or were willing to become so. With their sudden glut of free time, the youth were now a universal sight on the Imperial streets, sometimes agitating against the corrupt nobles, sometimes taking up parks and plazas to pass the hot days in the sun with their friends.

Despite the appearance of some mobs like these around the city, Artemy was stuck by the desolation which appeared across Balthorvia's capital. It was not only the sidewalks which were generally quieter of late than they typically were. As he gazed across the wide central street, making his way up the hill, Artemy was compelled to notice that there was not even a single automobile out on the roads, and it had been some time since he saw the last bus lumber past. The ghostly vista he saw laying across Spopomir's broad streets was seemingly one of two extremes the capital had come to expect lately: when it was not a ghost town on the roads for fear of authorities and protesters, it always seemed to be an epic crush of traffic trying to escape the breathless revolutionary game of chicken altogether. At times, the latter had illuminated the evening skyline of the city for hours and became one of the stock images in the international media associated with the crisis in the nation. Like a series of deep breaths, the revolution swung back and forth between its two potential realities, trying to reach the climax of the collision between power and ownership.

The crest of the steep sloping hill awaited Artemy just at the end of the next block, and his destination with it. An older building of about five stories, owned in the family by an aging tenant and rented to neighbors of long acquaintance both good and bad. By the look of it, it was one of the buildings considered classical in Balthorvian architecture, probably built in the late 18th Century as an artisan shop with living quarters located overhead. Its function as an apartment complex was likely to be recent, unless it had been built from the start as a townhouse of the Early Modern bourgeoisie. A similar descent of history provided the background for Artemy's own house, far larger and more stately than the vagrant life of he and his grandmother would suggest, belonging originally to his 19th Century ancestor and the man's aspiration to provide housing for his mother- and father-in-law.

He was looking right up into the murky rays of the sun when he noticed that the diesel growling he had been hearing in the distance shifted distinctly in his own direction. His eyes squinting together, he listened curiously as he heard the engines snarl, growing louder just beyond the hill. A convoy of beastly Imperial transport vehicles crawled over the summit with scorching waves of heat rippling all around. They were open-roofed in the back, displaying the conspicuously balded and frizzy heads of the few dozen or so dazed-looking passengers slumped together. As they crawled by, their appearance brought the throng of students to a stop, who cried out in an angry voice "Down with the Traitors!" and cheered savagely as they watched the Emperor's political enemies roll onward to a very unsympathetic incarceration.

Perhaps that was why the streets were so deserted. No telling where the latest crop of traitors had been drawn from. The Extraordinary Commission continued to work day after day serving endless edicts, stamped with the signature of the Emperor Himself, ordering the confiscation of some new properties and the liquidation of another unfortunate plutocrat. It was true that a lot of cash was turning up as lost - that was a muffled narrative of the Imperial court for sure - but the disappearing capital figured to be a severe liability to both sides. As the path of destruction continued through the assets of the Balthorvian peers, their hard assets had been turned loose as temporary resources to increase the life expectancy of Nicodemus' valorous stand - their food and water was seized and turned out to the protesters en masse, their mansions and parks were opened by force and established as public land. At this tortured point in the crisis, such men as these could well have been arrested for trying to defy their longstanding orders to give up their masters' property.

Artemy kept his head down toward the sidewalk; he felt an instinctual fear as the convoy of his brothers in arms thundered by. He knew he was well in trouble now, far over the line where he would be branded as a traitor of the lowest caliber and at best imprisoned for the remainder of his adult life. With the feverish attention rested on the proceedings of the Commission, and their aim to restore the military glory of the Empire, a betrayal like his would probably seem like an abominable crime against the Empire itself. This idea was in the back of his mind, the place from which he had fled by necessity, when Artemy trudged up the concrete stairs of the apartment building and put himself in front of the suite of bronze electric buzzers. The overhanging shade felt nice in the moment he uncurled the wad of paper in his fist and smoothed it out to see the address in his hasty handwriting. 1136 Kirketsne Street #5.

Shivering despite his long-sleeved jacket, Artemy thumbed down the button for number five. Beyond the thick-looking green painted door, a dog started up a round of confused barking to be so abruptly disturbed. Artemy could hear the arrival of his nefarious host by the sound of his irritated shouting match with the frightened pup. "Quiet, quiet you rotten beast!" The door inched open and the manic face of a black Balthorvian terrier immediately thrust itself into the opening, totally regardless of his snout getting lodged right in the crevice.

"Ah, sit down you whelp..." The stranger's voice was heard clearly for the first time: although somewhat harsh, it possessed a confident familiarity of the kind which Artemy was already near sickened with. The dog's insane expression was yanked away into the depths of the apartment; the door slid open another inch, to show the sturdy figure of an older man perhaps the age of 50, who looked patently ridiculous in an outfit of boxer shorts and an older wife-beater top, with dark sunglasses across the width of his wide moonish head. His fuzzy, thin caterpillar eyebrows made an affectatious arch toward the clean-shaven caller. "You are Mr. Artemy Aleksandrovich?"

The young man chanced a look over his shoulder, too brief to be more than a nervous gesture, and finding nothing but bright smog. "Who is asking?" he retorted in a soft voice.

The older man continued to stare at his young house-guest, his gesture of surprise beginning to make him seem like he had been slapped across the face. "Martin Bogomolov, at your service," he carefully answered in the tone of one who had sized-up his new accomplice. He seemed to take a whiff of pleasure at the boy's unusual antics.

Artemy stepped into the doorway as if he were blocking it with his frame. He sighed anxiously. "How do you know Nikoloz Gloveli?" he asked in a penetrating manner that was not disarmed by his soft and breathy tone of voice.

"Ah, the pooch doesn't like you so much!" Bogomolov laughed with his attentions focused on the yammering terrier jumping to escape from his bright red collar. With a revealing strength, the older man spun the little dog around and chucked him a good distance inside the foyer. "Go on, shoo," he grunted, watching the beast wander away. As an afterthought he looked Artemy sidelong in the face. "You want answers young man?" He beckoned Artemy to step inside, like the boy had passed some inspection of the older man's mind. "I will explain everything to you in good time. No need to worry..." He watched politely as the off-duty soldier bolted the front door. "It is not always good to know, little Artemy," the old man warned him, as he turned to lead him further inside. "Sometimes you are safer leaving things as they appear..."

Artemy followed the shorter man, hunched slightly as he was in the spine, copying his steps up the stairs to the second floor, and the entrance with a crude number '5' of cheap steel bolted on. He observed strongly the smell of old furniture, very familiar to himself as the caretaker of the family house. The scent was mixed with a pungent whiff of vodka, as they crossed into the simple living space of the enigmatic Martin Bogomolov. It radiated from the kitchen like a fireball, lapping at the edges of the adjacent living room where the clunking AC unit rattled the empty and weightless form of old soda bottles and discarded paper plates and stacks of scrap paper. Artemy broke the silence, as his host made a targeted effort to scoop junk out of their way. "You live here alone?"

Bogomolov dumped an armful of dirty silverware into the sink with a rolling crash; perhaps that was the excuse, if he had one, for ignoring Artemy's blunt question. "Ah..." he panted, throwing a stack of handmade blankets haphazardly across the living room floor. "There, a seat for you," he sighed, patting the deflated cushion where he expected Artemy to sit. He hobbled back into the kitchen as his leery guest tested the harshness of the wooden seat for himself.

Artemy sat in the height of his fear, hating to feel like he was in the heart of the lion's den. He raced as best as he could through the points he had made for himself, to keep his focus, but it was really the mistake of saying too much which he really feared. These worthless criminals already had whatever power they had over Artemy and his family - there was no real way for him to find out, as a hapless kid from the army. He wanted to give the impression of somebody who was wise to the tricks of the mafia, but that didn't mean he wanted to seem like he was afraid and unable to fend for himself. That was exactly the kind of act which was to these sorts of men as blood was to hungry sharks.

"So, Artemy..." Bogomolov entered his narration casually and unconcerned, as he thrust himself down on the old sofa with a cup of hot tea in his hand. "You are in some big trouble, I hear...you'e got far too many debts boy," shaking his head he looked ruefully at the young man, silently sharing his deep disapproval. "In this day and age you've really got to save Artemy...you've got to. You need a savings account...set a limit for yourself, put a cap on your purchases..."

Artemy swallowed the whole thing, hanging his head in exasperation; it took a lot, but there was no point in trying to get any answers out of Bogomolov. "Can you help me move these mens' accounts out of Balthorvia?" he said plainly; with no effort his penetrating stare radiated out at the old criminal.

"Ah..." the man slurped his tea and gingerly put it away from himself on the ottoman. "We can do it...but it is not going to be an easy job for you, my friend. I am sorry to say that the costs for you may be very great." Folding his hands deliberately, he cut Artemy off at the tip of his tongue. "But, I think you are the man for this job," he declared matter-of-factly to the boy's anxious face. "From inside, you can do it before the government has any idea of what is really going on..."

"They won't know the money was stolen?" he asked curiously.

"Of course they will know," Bogomolov grumbled, flashing a fatal expression. "The important thing is, they won't know where it was stolen. Or with whose help, that is to say. And if they can't find out that," he grimaced at the simplicity of the design, "they won't find out anything."

Artemy shrugged. "So what do you need me for?"

"You are a soldier," Bogomolov affirmed. "With your authority, you can access the files the Emperor has collected and you can pull out the account information for every one of the Balthorvian peers. We can find their bank accounts electronically and wire the money to our partners for safekeeping-"

"I already did that," Artemy shook his head perplexed.

Bogomolov took a careful sip of his tea. "We tried to go through these mens' personal staff, as you had devised...Unfortunately, many of these ducal accountants are also facing serious investigation. They are not safe either, and few of them can safely act on this issue. It will have to be done by a direct access to their account, using their own security credentials. We can access their accounts through a backdoor and transfer the money before anybody notices what has occurred."

Seeing the look on Artemy's face, the old man continued. He took a load off now, leaning back and getting into the more speculative side of the operation, which he enjoyed. "You can hopefully get access at the trial itself - in the records there, I mean. We may be able to collect some by other means, if needs be - but you may have to travel." Eyes looking up to the faded ceiling, he was oblivious to the consternation of his hostage as he supped his tea. "I will call our mutual friend Mr. Gloveli. He and I are close, I will tell him my thinking as it stands right now, and he may come up with something of his own to make both our lives that much easier. Rest assured my friend," insisted Bogomolov, leaning forward to replace his empty cup, "this will be easy compared to the stuff you see on television. We like to think of this as a family business - you be good to us like family, we will take good care of you. And don't worry about grandma," he smiled, regarding Artemy's tortured face. "We will keep her in very good health..."

[Snefaldia]

Ishqugulu, Biainili Autonomous Territory, Snefaldia

The morning was quiet, still dewy from the cool night air, and each hard bounce of the beat-up van's wheels knocked up clods of moist soil as it navigated the twisting mountain road. Inside the car, Ašmu Kantuzili silently cursed his driver, a Khaldini man named Sarduri, imagining he intentionally drove over the biggest potholes.

He hated making this trip. His spine always felt like it had been reduced to glass for the rest of the week, and again he cursed the local Khaldini, who never seemed to have any problem with the rough terrain in the high mountains. Biainili was almost literally a backwater in Snefaldia; it was high in the Velnar mountains and its Lake Nairi contributed to the great Saard river that defined Snefaldian geography, it was also economically depressed and stereotyped as a land of poverty-stricken shepherds and alcoholics. It was also a major source of opium, but owing to strict government regulations on the growing of opium poppies and policies that gave preference to central Snefaldia, most of the opium produced here was illegal.

Kantuzili himself wasn't in the illegal drugs trade. He was a money man, and it was one of those errands that saw him getting his bones liquified in a run-down vehicle on awful mountain roads close to the Kartlian border. The Khaldini knew all the mountain passages; the tiny goat paths, forgotten mining roads, and so on. He had to make this trip once a month, driving eight hours round trip from Erebouni city to a spot on the Kartlian border where there were no pesky border guards.

When his car arrived at the meeting space, a rocky turnaround on the mountain roads in a space deserted by even wildlife, his contact was already waiting, leaning against his own vehicle and smoking a cigarette. "Stay in the car." Kantuzili said in a low voice to Sarduri before getting out and walking to a space between the two cars. His contact was a Kartlian, but today it wasn't the regular man he knew.

"What's this?" Kantuzili asked, suspicious. "I expected Avtandil."

The other man flicked away his cigarette butt and walked forward with a briefcase. "Avtandil sent me. He was detained."

"I wasn't told to expect someone new." Kantuzili said, gritting his teeth. He wasn't armed; he'd never needed to be.

"Can't be helped, can it? I'm Vladimer. I have the case anyway. And I'm alone."

There was a pause as the Snefaldian sized up the man across from him. Average height, some dark stubble, neat haircut. Dark, rumpled suit with a hastily-tied necktie. He looked Kartlian enough, and he was carrying the usual steel briefcase. There was no one else in the car, that he could see anyway, and they were definitely the only vehicles for miles around.

This was supposed to be routine; drive up, collect the briefcase, drive back, hand off the briefcase. Like clockwork, every month. Something felt wrong, though, deep in Kantuzili's stomach. To stall for time, he pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and lit one, standing a few meters from the Kartlian. He decided to try something.

"Vladimer, huh. Are you from Batumi too?"

The man blinked. "What?"

"I said, are you from Batumi too? Avtandil is from Batumi."

The man looked confused briefly, his hand working the briefcase handle. "Yes, I'm from Batumi also. Are you going to take this thing so I can leave?"

Kantuzili took a hard drag on the cigarette, looking down at the rocky ochre soil, and then back at Sarduri waiting in the car, both hands hidden from view.

"No. No I'm not. I don't know you. I wasn't told to expect you. I'm going to get back in my car and leave."

The other man took a half step forward, but Kantuzili held fast, cigarette in his fingers. "Is this some joke?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

The other man's jaw worked as he stared at Kantuzili, then looked back at the car with the Khaldini driver. He's probably thinking whether Sarduri has a gun, Kantuzili thought. He definitely is alone, then, and has a gun. He took another chance.

"What's the use in taking a shot at us? Then there wouldn't be anyone to take the briefcase." he said, taking another drag on the cigarette before throwing it away. The man's face went hard, then softened again, and he smiled slowly.

"Nothing like that, friend. Just trying to think of what to tell my boss and Avtandil when I get back. "Blame the Snefaldian" always works well in my country."

Kantuzili chuckled, turned slowly, and walked back to the car, his shoulders tense. Sarduri had already started the engine, and he watched in the mirrors as they pulled away on the rocky path, the Kartlian man still holding the briefcase, alone on the mountain. When they were out of sight down the mountain he pulled out another cigarette, his hand shaking from the adrenaline, and smoked it and another two before pulling out the satellite phone and dialing a number. His Khaldini driver sat silently, his weather-lined face seemingly made of stone.

"Yeah, it's me." he said to the voice on the other end of the line, thinking it over. Avtandil wasn't from Batumi. He was from Martvili. "We have a problem."

[Balthorvia]

Kawa'itil Palace
The Residence of the Imperial Governor of al-Hadid
July 10, 2018

Of the hundreds of stately books which decorated the side wall of the Imperial Governor's office, there was one especially which often found itself conspicuously in use, featuring on the glass coffee table in the sitting area, or sitting squat in the middle of the Governor's desk. A blue paperback, which stretched the size of a common man's grasp, it was pegged as non-fiction at a glance, given the column of glowing reviews running down the back side and the classical-looking oil painting which served as the front cover. Many Balthorvians, a cultured people at heart, would recognize the scene as one reproduced from the pivotal battles of the great Atlantic wars in the youthful age of the 18th Century. Upon all this history, wisdom, and human science, the bold-lettered title of the piece sat as a capstone of the vocation of history itself, which pulled everything together: Empire and Slave: Authority, Power, and Rule in the Formation of the Western States. The less apparent italics at the bottom of the cover confidently agreed, "Michael Dornitsov does it again..."

As the Governor's favorite book to anyone who would listen, it took an honorable place in the middle of the two men as they sat together. The Imperial Governor, a man who bore the strong name of Melor Tchaikovsky, was entertaining his preferred servant, a young Balthorvian of mixed lineage with the name of Max - he did this often when he wanted a free ear to ramble off his thoughts, in preparation to deliver them officially to superiors and subordinates. Typical of these encounters, the Governor occupied the full width of his Lahkmanid Dynasty cream divan with an ebullient command, the authority of which he seemed to cast playfully against his household butler by subtle faces, as if he surely caught the boy thirsting for the trappings of his largely corrupt, lethargic rule over the country. The boy Max - though he was really a young man - sat in one of the armchairs spaced around the coffee table, listening to his master with the sharp, masculine and tan face the Governor was so fond of in totally bland attentiveness. There were too many occasions to recall on which the Imperial Governor had deigned to reveal to his servant the masterful secrets of this history, written a little over thirty years ago by the Professor Emeritus of the Ignatiev School of History, Dr. Michael Dornitsov. And yet, it seemed the Imperial Governor did not think any more of his servant's background knowledge, always sharing his takeaways from the book with an unthinking sense of privilege.

"Most people nowadays think politics is about responsiveness, but it's not," Governor Tchaikovsky reflected as he proceeded with full-force into his address on the Empire's various turmoils. He couldn't resist a playful eyebrow to the young man as he cradled his saucer and tea. "Responsiveness just is, it's an element of rulership. If you're the ruler and you get word of, I don't know, a dam breaking loose somewhere and you go down to fix it, that's just part of being the ruler. It's not this special activity the American academics want it to be, it's something all leadership does because of the nature of us as human beings."

"It's especially important to them," Max nodded, meekly critiquing the philosophy of his master, as his sense of honor required him to do, even if limply. He was not known for simply nodding his head and parroting things, which was something the Governor believed that he liked about the boy, aside from his obvious beauty. "In a democracy, you always have to do what the people say or else you will be overthrown, no matter how wise you are."

Tchaikovsky sighed, relishing the sweetness of his citrus tea, as he laid it aside for better use of his two bulky hands. A giant of a man, at a little over six and half feet, he was more massive than he was either especially muscular or fat, sometimes giving the vague impression of a white ogre in his tight military jacket and closely-fit shoes and cuff-links. The impression was unfortunately bolstered by his wide-eyed face with shaven head, and his eccentric and jockish manner of acting. "Why do you think they've gone back and forth every election in the last 20 years?" the Governor wryly tested his underling, "It's because the presidents race mindlessly to do whatever the people say, and they screw things up so badly that it's become hopelessly destroyed and the people will always feel like they need a radical solution to fix it. That's what responsiveness did to democracy. The competent ruler is supposed to do the right thing first, and then sell the appeal afterward. If they had done that in America, they wouldn't have wound up with the people demanding a new ruler every 4 years."

Seeing the pensive nod from Max, the Imperial Governor fully assumed his element. He reached for the book lying on the table between them. "You see politics is necessarily about rule. People want it differently, but politics is really about law and permanence. To govern means to attempt to affix a permanent order across society. The successful ruler passes his achievement onto his successor, who continues to endeavor to make a more permanent and complete order. We came from apes and cavemen Max," Tchaikovsky shrugged roguishly at the doubt he imagined he saw, "it can't be otherwise."

"We will always have a part of ourselves which views things that way," Max was able to say. Although his self-expression was tortured by the dictates of their relationship, it was not such a bad thing, especially as holding one's tongue and allowing others to make fools of themselves was a common wisdom profered in al-Hadid. More often than not, he enjoyed the exercise of critiquing his master's philosophy and worked at developing his own knowledge, to become ever closer to one who spoke the truth.

"What people call politics, ideology, all of that comes from the same place which gives us our proclivity to think in terms of order and authority," Tchaikovsky professorially shared, perhaps inviting his servant to go further. "It works because there's no ambiguity - that way of political messaging speaks right to where people really are, rather than trying to confuse things. That's why it dominates our history. That's why it succeeds in so many places, and," he added with a finger, "why it will succeed now in al-Hadid, too."

Max shifted in his chair, because of the restlessness which filled him when his mind began to race ahead of his composure. He was a perpetually stony figure, rarely departing from his practiced pose of sitting with his back and neck straight and his hands clasped together at his knees or in his lap. His shoulders tensed from the attempt to handle his own thoughts, though he kept his prompt attentions on the Imperial Governor. "Some people like Nicodemus, but it may not be because of his authority," he warned the Governor in clerical tones, "it may be more because of the promises he makes for ordinary people's lives. He speaks to a spiritual part of people..."

"Well it may be spiritual, but it doesn't mean that it isn't about power," disagreed the Imperial Governor, who seemed to find this a serious mistake. "This spiritual truth the Emperor is speaking of, is the message of stable and lawful order with permanence. It's based exactly on the theories of Dr. Dornitsov," he added with a pat to the valorous military cover. "Authority holds power, and force, and exemplifies the legitimacy to use them correctly. People recognize the authority as legitimate and they give their consent, to become part of the powerful themselves - part of the authority which they admire," he opined by a intellectual hand waving.

"But can the messages of a Christian Emperor be legitimate here, in an Islamic country?" asked Max in a way which invited the whatever answer.

Tchaikovsky tapped his fingers on the glass, his breath baited. "Authority will succeed in al-Hadid, because it is about something bigger than God," he said as if it were weighty and adult news. "We use God as our symbol for authority, not the other way around. There's two parts to restoring order in this country," he said holding up two fingers, "our authority needs to be credible, and it needs to be legitimate. But in order for it to be legitimate, it has to be credible first. And how can it be credible right now," he added impromptu, "when there's a gentleman claiming to be the King of al-Hadid with an army behind him, sitting in occupation of the royal city?"

Max nodded cautiously, unwilling to say much. "That really speaks to something deep here in this country."

"First he has to be undone," asserted the Imperial Governor. "We're getting big reinforcements from the Emperor over the next several months. We'll storm into the lowland part of the country and bulldoze al-Saif out of their strongholds, 'til they're flattened. That's key to what Dornitsov says," he slapped the cover of his cherished tome, "there has to be a material reality at the core of all political messages. When we've accomplished the conquest, we'll be able to send real messages to the Haddites that have the force of truth, because our claims will have obvious legitimacy. That's when part two begins, and we can kick off the propaganda campaign."

"Do you think that conquest will really destroy the legitimacy of al-Saif?" Max questioned with awe in his voice.

"Their authority is completely based on the claim that they can provide a real opponent to the Empire, and that they have a special ingenuity which will allow them to prevail against the odds. That is totally the target of our operation, and it cannot survive the reality of crushing defeat on the battlefield," Tchaikovsky replied with a smug smile on his face. "When that is gone, the Empire will only have to prove its own lawfulness and the reliability of its promises to make the Haddites accept her as the legitimate regime."

Max wondered to himself. Wisdom of the kind which the young man was supposed to cultivate, as a warrior, was not always of the same train of thought as state society politics - a sharp impasse which was the source of much of the fun in these stilted conversations. "I wonder how many troops the Emperor can spare," the boy admitted to his master.

The Imperial Governor laughed throatily through his teeth. "You must be thinking of the troubles with Daytanistan? Ah you are a smart boy," the man confessed. "We think that, of a population of 30 million, there are probably 500,000 total al-Saif in this country. The regular forces they claim to keep are probably not more than 50,000 at best. It is not to be underestimated, but, we hope that a total force of 170,000 imperial soldiers will be sufficient to complete this operation to destroy their regular army, despite insurgent activity. The front will be weakened, but it is only temporary. The majority will return after the combat is finished. We will keep only a force slightly larger than our garrison, to hold the strongholds."

"Mm," Max nodded with his ever-serious face. "A lightening strike, to break them apart..."

"And send a message, that this new al-Saif army is nothing but the same peasant guerrillas, who are better off hiding in caves," Tchaikovsky told him with relish. "Of course there are deep structures behind these recent tensions. But, with this operation, we hope that the simmering boil may be stopped, and go out. This wave of enthusiasm will be curtailed, and we can keep the dissent at the historic levels." Balthorvian statesmen and military personnel knew of what he spoke of, it being a common line of the past several decades to reference a lull in Haddite unrest that was the product of several factors, not least among them the weight of centuries of time.

A familiar sound squeaked in the Imperial Governor's office. It was the electric watch which Max wore, going off as usual, this time to signify the hour before lunch. "I should go," he said.

"Yes yes, run along," the Governor insisted with the back of his hand, reaching impotently to collect the saucer which Max scooped into his hands. "Wouldn't want you to spoil our appetite," he sighed and, with a few wriggling motions, changed his stance on the couch to lay back prone, slightly to the side of where he had been moments before. It was a taxing job to govern the whole kingdom of al-Hadid, and comforts like these were essential to keep his mind in the freshest possible shape.