"Yallak's like going to a funeral of a friend of a friend. You never quite know why you're there in the first place, and you certainly never want to go back." ~ The late Lord Pimms.
Fort St. Michael,
Laysley.
The Burns Room had one real capacity: to hold meetings of the still technically unofficial Layslian high council. Generations of the great and the genuinely concerned (as Richard Carlyle had termed it, distinguishing it form the great and the plain rich, who discussed matters of state in the infamous Commonwealth Club) had sat beneath the prodigious chandelier, amongst the neoclassical decor favoured by the upper-crust who were secure in their class consciousness. The idea was an informal meeting room, with plush armchairs scattered in a loose circle where government types could lock their fingers together and muse intelligently, and for the most part it worked. The main sign that it was a meeting room was not, in fact, the assembled great and concerned of Laysley filling the chairs and looking concerned, but the larger armchair in front of the fire at the far end of the room.
In that chair sat Her Reverence Princess-Archbishop Clare Kehlam of Laysley, resplendent in a dark blue business jacket and skirt. She sat up straight with her hair tied back and her legs folded, supporting her clasped hands on her thigh. She looked all the world like a secretary sitting in on her boss' big meeting, albeit with some effort to look authoritative. Flint would muse later that the only thing she would ever rule with were her eyes, but at this point he contented himself to daydreaming and mindlessly staring at her legs while the meeting droned on.
The Bully had started them off, or John Fond as he was more sympathetically known. As the Permanent Secretary to the Court of St. Michael, i.e. head of the civil service, his brief was to provide a functioning proto-bureaucracy for the relief efforts which, bias aside, he had done a good job with, especially as it seemed he alone was the civil service just right now. Of course, he'd thrashed out the proposals in the style that had earned him his nick-name, excessively loudly declaring it in no uncertain terms, exasperatedly explaining a minor detail to Flint when his poor little mind got a bit boggled and very nearly throwing a hissy fit when Miss Kehlam (as she liked to be known) had told him to skim over the next item. Yet the man in the impeccable but entirely styleless business suit had finished, and it was Vincent Mole's turn.
Cutting a monkish figure with his more-bald-patch-than-hair look, creased suit and broken arm, Mole was, of course, too old and clever to care what he looked liked. As the wizened Governor of the Bank of Laysley, style and content were both, thankfully, brief and he quickly asserted that the Byzantine efforts to bail out the banks were running smoothly and people's cash-in-hand needs were, for the most part, being met. Some good news at last. Furthermore, the half-formed proposal to covertly pull investment out of Mykola had been met with open arms at the Commonwealth Club where the members strongly believed Mykola was in for a rough ride pumping money into their "government" in Blünderburg. However, he added at the end, a couple of smaller merchant banking firms had relocated officially to the Reich, to audible snorts from Whistling, and members of the Club were concerned about mobs raging through some of the richer suburbs.
And with such relatively mundane tasks out of the way, it was time to twist the tale even more. Miss Kehlam's style, unusually, was to save the 'best' till last. Flint supposed it broadly worked, so it was surprising and a source of great pride when the stories flooded in from other countries where putting rich men into a room together when the fate of their nation was the in the balance had the opposite effect of resolving anything. Sat ominously in the First Minister's old seat in dress that merited a hike in the more dangerous parts of Qualah, helmet on his lap, General Astia, who was de jure actually in charge here, was politely asked by Kehlam to speak. So he spoke.
"Gentlemen, your Reverence" he gave a polite nod to Miss Kehlam as he stood."As you know your position is very stark. The Emperor himself will be arriving in Laysley within days complete with his own crack legions, intent on killing every Layslian here. As it stands I have had no contact with senators in the Empire, and my colleagues and I will take no action until the Senate places us under orders. We will not move, but we will not fight. My only suggestion to flee while you can."
Flint thought later that the silence that followed, broken only by Speckle scratching the back of his head, was one of the only moments wherein his brain wasn't filled with easy sardonic jokes to tell to some girl later.
For once he just sat amazed, along with everyone else. They knew all about it from Whistling, but from Astia it took very real dimensions. Genocide happened to other people…
Kehlam replied first, starting with a small cough. Flint's eyes flicked away from the now sat Astia back to the Princess, then in a matter of moments inexorably slid towards her legs…
"Flint?" she asked, politely.
Very nearly visibly he shook himself and caught her eye. Of course she'd seen, how ridiculous he looked! He gave her an affable grin while groaning ferociously inside. Clearly it worked: she gave a little but genuine smile in return .
"I feel it prudent to inquire as to the intentions of Lord Crisp. Can his actions stay the hand of the Yallakians? Is there any way we can get in contact with him?" Kehlam remained in exactly in position, quizzing as professionally as ever.
But Flint, by upbringing, temperament and philosophy, was not a professional. He spread his arms out, palms up.
"To be frank, Miss Kehlam, I have absolutely no idea what he's going to do with Cato once he's got hold of him. From what I remember…" He paused for a moment, then continued "He would probably end up holding him as a hostage, but-"
"Well" interrupted Astia brashly "in that case you're only exacerbating the situation."
Flint lined up words for a next comment involving a way of getting back at Astia for his horrible, condescending, not to mention naive, tone, but Speckle got there first with the start of stammer. A moment later:
"-then it appears we have difficulties on b-both accounts. As to your second question, your Highness, it has always been the policy of the Guild of Assassins that contact with agents while in fieldwork is virtually impossible. W-we cannot speak to him."
The room eyed Crisp's empty chair apprehensively.
The Bully was quiet today, perhaps grasping the gravity of the situation, but at least they could all be thankful they had Astia to replace him.
"Get out then. Get everyone out, because Yallak cannot be stopped."
"Maybe not" came an instant reply from directly opposite him. Whistling and Astia looked superficially symmetrical facing across from each other, bolt-upright in their chairs with hands clasped with military precision. But as Astia wore modern urban-warfare gear, Whistling sat resplendent in his General's dress, complete with medals, seeping in tradition. And while Astia's words were the words of an upstart superpower, Whistling's were the words of the old order of Waldenburg. "But we will never know unarguably unless we put them to the test."
Whistling stood up. Astia shuffled backwards in his chair. Flint felt a wry smile tugging.
"Lord Whistling…" Astia began, consolingly, then stopped suddenly as Jowls stood up from the other corner.
Dominating the room, the assembled swivelled in surprise to see him acting without the Princess' orders. He sneered slightly, then growled.
"I don't know what you do in Yallak, Mr. General, but in Laysley we fight for what we love. To the last drop of blood!"
His mouth hanging open ever so slightly, the Yallakian held up a reasoning hand. Then Fond stood up right next to him.
Then Flint, with a friendly grin to Whistling, sprang up. Speckle creaked to life shortly afterwards.
Kehlam smiled slightly. "Is this the decision of the council?" she inquired flatly.
The question didn't need an answer, so it was left hanging. The dramatic moment was lost, with the Lords standing awkwardly…
"Then" she continued, just in time "I propose a toast!"
Standing and lfting her glass, even though she didn't strictly drink, the others followed suit.
"To the last drop of blood?" inquired Fond.
"To Laysley!" she replied, with startling gusto.
"To Laysley!"
---
The Middle of Nowhere,
The Middle of the Night.
In the shade of a glade, the motley crew sat around a fire, expertly produced by the Inquisitorial Stormtrooper, each in front of a tent, also put up in a flash by the above. He sat studying a collection of poetry, his state of the art equipment neatly piled beside him, reading glasses lit up from the flames. A clumsy plaster was slapped to his swollen lip.
Another employee of the GOA sat smoking his own, much higher quality, cigarette while struggling to polish a boot one handed. He had dark skin, a fine crop of curly black hair straddling his head and a rather impressive sniper rifle laid across his lap.
Crisp simply sat impassively staring into space, hands locked together atop his crossed legs.
Cato lay back smoking a cheap cigarette inexpertly, given to him moments earlier by Crisp with a simple 'I am informed that you smoke'. He was quite resigned to his position and, besides, these were Layslians. He liked Layslians. You knew where you stood with that brand of soulless traitors.
The Prince rotated the cigarette between his fingers, looking at it quizzically. The sniper, Cato thought he was probably Fictionese, grinned at him. Cato smiled back politely, realising he was the one that made the joke about the cheque. Then again, they were Layslians, and some people just never joke about serious things like money...
"Would you like one of mine your Highness? They're much better!"
The sniper spoke perfect Palonian-dwardle, thought Cato. Show him some real German, he resolved.
"Do you mind? These ones are rather, as you observed, tasteless."
They shared a lighter, and after the first inhale the sniper nodded sociably.
"Prince Cato in the flesh" he said smiling "I didn't think I'd live to see the day! Your running about the place confusing the life out of every government and newspaper in Tyrrhenia gives you a very larger-than-life record, your highness"
Cato smiled politely, again, then couldn't resist the temptation to reply. "I'm flattered, my dear chap, but larger than life? I do believe you're the one with the fascinating background here!"
The sniper looked at him quizzically.
"What's your name, Layslian?" His slip into military style seemed to go unnoticed.
"I'm Jamal. I'm Fictionese, actually, I just work for these gents."
"Then, Jamal of Laysley, how is it that a nice subcontinent boy like yourself ends up in the depths of Sälitz, presumably for quite some time with an accent like that, working in the secret service of an entirely foreign power as a sniper?!"
Jamal smiled warmly. "Layslians aren't that alien to us Fictionese, your Highness. I'm the son of nomads, my father won countless awards for his shooting and I've done my best to emulate him. I was enlisted by the Layslian Embassy, then packed off to Sälitz with a branch of their Fictionese Service when we took over the governorship here. Here I am!"
He finished with a laugh. Cato chuckled at the infectious chortle.
"What about you?" said Cato turning to the reader. The pommie looked up from his anthology momentarily, replied with a curt "I'm an Inquisitorial Stormtrooper." then went back to it. Cato turned back to Jamal.
Jamal shrugged "He doesn't enjoy his job. He's a writer by temperament, reads like a librarian and is only happy when he's doing that! Or off with the girls, obviously!" Jamal pointed at the pommie's knapsack with his cigarette. "Full of books! That and sneaking off to go off with the girls are the only two things he doesn't do exactly by the book! How he'll make it to retirement age without topping himself I have no idea. Damn good solider though, don't get me wrong."
Cato looked puzzled. "If he hates it so much, why did he sign up in the first place?"
Jamal shrugged again "You're asking me?"
There was silence for a moment, then Jamal called over to the pommie.
"Lieutenant Edwardson, sir?" He said this without a hint of actual respect.
The Lieutenant looked up again, annoyed. "Yes?"
"Why did you join the Stormtroopers, sir?"
Edwardson sighed and reluctantly put a bookmark in his anthology. He put it down with great care on top of his combat armour, then straightened up and replied.
"Family thing." he had a public school voice "We'd all been in the Stormtroopers since the war, and I was naturally expected to carry on this tradition. I studied hard and actually finished my degree, which is more than can be said for my father" he almost spat the word out "then I assumed I'd just sign up, not be suitable and be advised to leave." He stared out longingly at the tree line.
"Then what happened?" Cato asked quietly.
"Then…" another sigh "then I was fantastic. I was promoted quickly and after five years I'm here, one of the best respected and least liked men in the entire Guild." His voice had lost its edge by the end, and he didn't take his eyes off the empty air.
"You know" mused Cato aloud "I've sat in innumerable meetings with innumerable characters and I've never once been surrounded by such fascinating individuals" Perhaps this wasn't strictly true, but it can't have been far from it and it made them happy.
They laughed, then Crisp arbitrarily switched on.
"Your Highness?" Crisp asked straight to Cato's startled face, in a sort of hiss that managed to be unnerving without being at all aggressive. Cato supposed that was one of the few parts of his personality Crisp was born with.
The Prince smiled politely. "How can I help?"
"I believe I am the one helping you, your Highness." Crisp replied unusually cryptically, then got to the point. "The aim of this expedition is to rescue you from the Yallakians and deliver you back to your army. You will defeat the Yallakians and reign independently."
"Whether I like it or not." Cato grumbled tactlessly. The idea of the Layslians trying to be pivotal in changing the course of world history was laughable. But then, as he reflected later, a city state was a bit like a banana. Small, yellow, vaguely interesting and invariably in a position where you ended up slipping up on it.
Crisp gave an almost invisible smile in reply. Then: "We will discuss where you would like to go in the morning. Corporal Marhab, Lieutenant Edwardson, the usual watch drill. Goodnight."
As Crisp crawled into his tent, Cato began to muse he had got an excellent deal with this particular kidnapping.
--
Rural Qualah.
Ama reached the top of the hill and immediately turned to look at the vast expanses of Qualah stretching out beneath her, the sun low in the sky at the dawn of a new day. Her little village lay a few miles down the road, a snaking road leading out of it into the distance. She breathed in the air, panting. Having been at college in the capital for so long, this walk that had once well within her stride had all but exhausted her. She would miss her home, for she had come to say goodbye.
Then she turned back.
The hermit and her struck absolute juxtapositions. She stood neat and prim in business suit, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, long black hair flowing in all directions since her discarding of the hijab for when anyone official wasn't looking. Save for the tattered walking books and the general dustiness, she was the very model of a young, upcoming progressive. And she knew it.
The hermit sat solemnly but contentedly, wearing a loin-cloth and loose robe as ancient as he was. Resplendent in wrinkles and wisdom, he looked not far dissimilar to the rock of ages. But naturally he had long been above such things as aesthetics.
They smiled warmly at one another.
"You have come to say goodbye?" the hermit's voice sounded in bad need of oiling, seeping croaks and wheezes.
"I have, my master." Ama's was crisp and clear in the early morning air.
"I see" the hermit nodded contentedly. "We are sending light to the old world. They have grown tired, my dear Ama, you will do great works."
"Thank you, my master."
"No no no!" replied the hermit with a chuckle "no no, I am not your master now. I have taught you a great many things, your family and village have taught you many others, your city has taught you even more. Now you must go and learn lessons I shall truly never be able to comprehend. I do not expect I shall live to see you if you ever return."
Ama nodded sadly. She never did have many words, except around her closest friends perhaps, and certainly not in front of her master.
Then she nodded again, much more audaciously, smiling slightly. "Goodbye."
"Go in peace, my daughter."
She turned round and set off back down the hill. For the very last time.
