The best intentions pave the way to Hell [Past Tech|Closed]

[Siando]

OOC: This RP is Closed. Do not post in this thread without permission.

A victorious army surges forward through the gates of the city of Konom. The city had been built by the conquerors from Edumaea. Now it was Emperor Daluben made his final, desperate stand. The Edumaean soldiers and their few remaining sepoy troops are butchered by the blood-frenzied victors. Riding through the city in their wake, mounted atop a white horse, is a young girl who still seems more child than adult. This is the young Queen Indah - a woman who Daluben had tried to kidnap and wed. Now the price for his arrogance and greed is exacted in blood.

* * *

On an ancient throne in the city of Eko, Queen Indah - her youth all the more apparent when draped in the elaborate formal dress of her station - receives the fealty of the other realms of the island. Indah’s ancestors were the rulers of the kingdom of Siwenna, which had ruled a portion of the island before being conquered by the Edumaeans centuries ago. Now this girl rules over the entire island. Those who had been vassals of the Edumaeans now pledge themselves to her, and her heirs. Discerning eyes might note the early swell of her belly.

* * *

Years have passed. Indah has become a woman, yet her beauty is tempered by the stress of her position. Her island is small, and rich in resources which powerful empires covet. There are those who seek to supplant her, or control her. She must play a delicate game to keep her people free - and keep herself and her family safe. Accompanying her in many of these gatherings is a young boy, Prince Adi. He learns at his mother’s side what it means to be a ruler.

* * *

Cries of pain echo in the hallways of the palace. The Queen is giving birth to her second child. Her son waits anxiously. He is not allowed to see his mother, and he worries. Around him, the courtiers and nobles plan their contingencies. So many possible outcomes. The Queen might have a second son. She might die in childbirth. Yet none of them can afford to act prematurely. So they wait for news. It comes, several hours later. The Queen is alive, and healthy. She has given birth to a girl: Vina.

* * *

Before, the palace was bursting with celebration. A great feast and party was held to celebrate the birth of Princess Vina. Now the palace, and the island, are wrapped in mourning. Prince Adi, heir to the throne of a united Siando, is dead. Though his death is pronounced as natural, rumors swirl around the court. Some whisper that he was poisoned - the suggested culprits range from worrying possible to outlandish. No one is more deeply affected than Queen Indah. She takes to her quarters and is not seen for days. The woman who emerges is different - reserved, dispassionate, and cold. It is as if all her emotions drained out with her tears.

* * *

Princess Vina grows up. She is a rambunctious young girl, eager to see and do everything. Her laughter fills the halls of the palace. Yet her mother does not - perhaps cannot - return this warmth. Nor does she invite the presumptive heir to learn at her side. The princess is barred from the council meetings and dismissed when the court discussion turns to matters of state. Some take notice of this - the young princess is not one of them. She leads a happy childhood, despite the lack of maternal affection.

* * *

The great Queen is dying. Unlike her son, no one can deny that it is a natural affliction which weakens her. The doctors have done all they can, to no avail. Now it is the turn of the priestesses, the Sayyadina, to pray for her salvation. If that cannot be accomplished, then they will pray for her painless passage into the paradise of the next world. Again, the courtiers settle to watch, like scavenger birds circling above or perched on a tree branch. Indah has named her heir - Vina will be the next Queen of Siando. The princess, now a young woman, approaches her mother’s deathbed with trepidation. She has had little experience with death.

Eko - 1898

“You must forgive me, my daughter,” Indah rasps. “I was a fool. I thought I was protecting you. Keeping you safe, by keeping you distant. Too many died, who were close to me…yet now I see, I have left you unprepared for this great burden.”

“I will be a good queen, mother,” Vina says, her voice quavering with emotion. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you proud.”

Indah reaches out a hand, and brushes a tear from Vina’s cheek. The young woman gasps quietly - she is not used to such displays of compassion.

“You must protect our people,” Indah tells her. Her voice is faint, and she struggles to get words out. “Protect our island. Do not…”

The Queen’s eyes flutter, close for a moment, then slowly open. Her pupils are glassy, and seem to be looking at something far in the distance. “Is this…is this all there is?” Her eyes close, and her head falls backwards onto the pillow. Her chest rises one last time, and then goes still.

Matara Temple - 1901 - Now

A great flock of people had gathered around the temple, waiting for priestesses to emerge and make their announcement. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of Siandoans were eager to be among the first to hear the proclamation of the arrival of the Lisan - a guide to paradise, whose coming was foretold in the Saari, the holy book of the Zenshia religion. Only the great convocation of Sayyadina which had been called at Matara could officially pronounce a priestess as the Lisan, yet many among the crowd fervently believed that the woman who they were considering was the promised deliverer.

Her name was Mega, and she had been a Sayyadina preaching, teaching, and distributing charity. She was a model of holy behavior - ascetic, wise, and compassionate. Then she had begun to receive visions from Kyra, the supreme goddess and mother of all beings. Those visions were the reason for her consideration as the Lisan. If she was determined to be the true chosen of Kyra, then she would not be merely an exceptional priestess. She would become, essentially, the leader of the Zenshia religion.

This was a troubling possibility for some. Mega’s preaching had taken a distinct turn in the years since her visions began. She had begun to question the decisions of Queen Vina, and her advisors. Why were foreigners permitted such leniency on the island? They brought valuable goods, yes, but they also brought diseases of the body and soul. They lorded over plantations of sugar cane, coffee, and tea, crops that brought them vast riches, yet they paid their workers a pittance. Their so-called “improvements” like the mines and railroads, destroyed the natural beauty of the island. Was it not time, Mega asked her followers, for the Queen to protect her people from this exploitation?

The foreigners had not been happy about this conclave. It was rumored they had pressed Queen Vina to block it. But the Queen had demurred, and wavered, and the high priestesses had gone ahead without waiting for royal sanction. This boldness had only encouraged the simmering nationalist resentment which was now threatening to boil over into something more dangerous. All eyes looked to the door of Matara Temple, waiting…

The doors opened, and the crowd fell silent. Slowly, a pair of priestesses emerged from the temple.

“People of Siando,” they announced in unison. “Behold! The Lisan!”

The crowd drew in a collective breath as a third figure emerged from the temple, wearing a long cowled dress. The priestess Mega threw back her hood and revealed herself to the crowd. Her face was painted a stark white, with lines of red in elaborate patterns running down her cheeks. Her piercing green eyes were like two emeralds set into a polished limestone wall. The crowd began to chant as one.

“Lisan! Lisan! Lisan! Guide us to paradise!”

[Mareyland]

Eko

It was always so damned hot in this country.

The Mareyland ambassador dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief for what felt like the hundredth time since he had arrived at the palace. Even in his light linen clothes, he was sweating in the late morning heat. The chamber where he was waiting was equipped with a series of swinging fans affixed to the ceiling, moved back and forth by a servant in the corner pulling on a rope. The contraption provided something of a cool breeze, but John Vallette could still feel the sweat all over his body. Assignment to Siando meant living in a constant state of discomfort. John Vallette had been given the assignment because he had made the mistake of backing the losing candidate in the National Republican Party’s presidential primary. Once he was ensconced in the office, President Emmanuel Dewey had decided to take some measure of revenge against those who had opposed him. Hence Vallette's posting, an exile in all but name from the centers of power.

The posting was not without its positive qualities, though. Far from judgemental eyes and with a generous government account to draw on for expenses, John Vallette could indulge his appetites in ways that would have been decried as unseemly for a man of his station back home. His well-furnished residence on the island, and his voluptuous mistress who lived in it with him, were testament to his desires. When his own resources were insufficient to acquire what he wanted, he could often depend on the generosity of the Mareyland merchants who made their wealth in the Oriental trade. In return, he made sure their interests were kept at the forefront of official government policy on the island.

The doors at the other end of the mostly-empty chamber opened, and a native man in elaborate servant’s livery announced, in a heavy accent, “You may come with me, sir. My lord is ready to receive you.” About damn time, Vallette thought.

The man who served the function of Foreign Minister in the Siandoan government was named Budi. His title translated to something like “Speaker for the Queen.” He was an amiable man, who John Vallette found tolerable despite his darker skin. For this meeting, he was wearing not the colorful and gaudy native clothing of his servants, but a suit of the type which was fashionable back in Mareyland.

“Mister Ambassador,” Budi said when John entered his office. “Welcome, and please sit down. Can I offer you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Vallette replied. Normally he was happy to drink, but his business was serious and he did not wish to waste time with pleasantries. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Excellency. I have a somewhat urgent matter to discuss with you.”

“The bandit attacks, I suspect?”

“Is that what you’re calling them?” It was more than simply banditry. Plantations owned by foreigners were being attacked and burned. Foreigner travelers on the roads were being waylaid and murdered. And all of it starting after that pagan ceremony at Matara Temple. “It seems more serious than that, to myself and to those who do business here.”

“I understand your concern,” Budi said. “The pagan rituals are frightening spectacles. But the mystics make their proclamations, and most people pay it little heed.”

“What about this gathering that’s about to happen?” Vallette pressed. “It sounds like this mystic woman, this…”

“Lisan,” Budi offered the word Vallette was looking for. “It’s a religious pilgrimage, nothing more. They will all gather, chant their prayers, and then go home. Please, tell your government there is nothing to worry about.”

“You know, the treaty you signed commits you to preserving peace, and protecting foreigners,” Vallette remarked. “If those obligations are not upheld -”

“We are fulfilling all the obligations of our treaty,” Budi shot back, voice getting testy. “But, to calm your nerves, I will suggest to Her Majesty the Queen that General Yuda send additional troops to secure the troubled areas.”

“And my government will be sending a warship,” John Vallette revealed. “To keep an eye on the situation. In case these religious fanatics decide to make more trouble than you expect.”

Budi scowled. “Does your government have such low faith in ours?”

“Well, once your cultists stop trying to bash white people on the head,” Vallette retorted, the mask of civility slipping. “Then such things will no longer be necessary.”

Budi rose from his desk and gestured towards the door. “Thank you, Ambassador. I will pass along what we have said here to my Queen, and the rest of the government.”

Vallette rose and straightened his tie. “Good day, Your Excellency.”

[Neo Prutenia]

Royal Palace

Godhard was in a rather blithe mood as he entered the particular room in the palace assigned to his friend and colleague to be her atelier. He was greeted by an assault of both aromatic and acrid odours, which seemed to have taken permanent residence in this space since the Prut artist became the court painter. There was a clear—practically ‘marked’—path from the door through the workspace that forked approximately in the middle. One tine curved around a tower of half-spent paint cans, jumping straight next to the pile of canvases of various sizes, then taking two sharp lefts, passing a stand where someone had been working on a landscape and another stand which was covered by a thin blanket, only then to finally end at the exit to the balcony. The other prong stretched next to a table and cupboard, each housing a variety of brushes, cans, chemicals, thinners, and various dyes, arriving at a screen dividing the workspace from the comparably tiny living space Astrid had carved out for her bed, a small table that judging by the trace amount of food and several coffee and tea stains was her go-to place for eating, and a travel trunk. To leave either ‘path’ risked slipping on a myriad of stains, blotches, and flecks, or stepping on inconveniently placed tools, drawings, sketches, knives, or knick-knacks which all had a tendency to multiply and occupy more and more space each time Godhard happened to visit his friend.

Rather unusually, no one greeted him. Neither Astrid, nor any of her apprentices and helpers appeared to be here. Which was a bother to him, since he had a parcel to deliver and he had not the slightest idea where to place it for Astrid to find it, since the woman had her very own and very unique system of cataloguing and keeping inventory. For a moment he pondered tossing it on her bed, figuring she’d have to find it there at some point during the day. However, he dismissed that idea, reckoning Astrid would be displeased to wait for her package all day only to find it in the late evening. Where to put it? His inner monologuing was interrupted by Astrid’s sudden appearance.

As ‘sudden’ as someone entering the room from the direction of the balcony could be that is.

“Why are you in your knickers?!”

Astrid—entering her room carefree and yes, nude except for the garment Godhard chose to emphasise—was surprised, taken a bit aback, just a bit, before she angrily responded:

“Excuse you! Peeper! Ogler! This is my bloody room!” Astrid paused. “Leering gawker.” She put her arms on her hips and forcefully and very much deliberately turned and faced him. “Gazer.”

Godhard blinked twice, then got the hint as Astrid was slowly listing every term that came to her mind to describe him as a peeping Tom. He muttered a ‘sorry’ and looked down, giving her the opportunity to put on a blouse and haphazardly slip into a skirt. Truth to be told, one could hardly blame his eyes for lingering for so long—Astrid was a looker, and had all the Prutonic features described in song and poetry. Blonde flowing hair, light eyes—greenish-grey rather than the stereotypical blue—cute freckles, a shapely figure and curves in all the right places. She had it all. Except one thing. She was small, being just a metre and a half tall. By Prut standards she was a shortstack, and she made up for it with her temperament. And this was even more pronounced when compared to Godhard, who towered over her with his 1.80-ish metres or so.

“Alright, turn around.”

“Done?”

“Yes, just look up silly.”

Godhard peeked, then looked up. Astrid hadn’t bothered too much arranging her outfit, going for the bare minimum presentability in mixed company. He rolled his yes. Even by Prut standards she was being far to libertine. It was her room however and he did technically barge in without knocking. A lesson for next time.

“The ship’s arr…”

“Oh yes, I know.”

“How?”

“What do you mean ‘how’? It’s been in port for several hours. How wouldn’t I not know?! It’s a Prut steamer. Have you seen our ships, Godhard? They are very large ships.”

“But it’s barely half past seven in the morning?! I literally just got this for you from the ship. Well, from a courier.”

“Splendid.” Astrid took the parcel, smiled and placed it on her bed. She then bent down just a little, picked something up, and handed it to Godhard. It turned out to be a relative flat but large package. “Mix-up. This one’s yours.”

“What?!”

“This package? With fancy fabrics I presume. You’re the royal tailor, Godhard. I doubt anyone else imports high value textiles from Prutenia, so they ought to be yours.”

“Of course, but…”

“Man, you are thick today. Look, I have a guy, who brings me my stuff. Local guy, stevedore, very reliable. I pay him to handle… delicate imports. Mostly lady stuff and personal items. He apparently confused our deliveries, so I got your package around five o’clock. I figured you’d get mine, and we’d do exactly what we did now, exchange them. All clear now?”

“Why were you awake at five o’clock?”

Astrid shifted from a smile to deadpan expression. She sighed, then forcefully presented her body by gesturing. Godhard didn’t get it.

“Godhard, I was obviously doing my morning exultations. Why else would I have been nude in the morning?”

“Oh… Oh!”

“You nasty man! Have you been skipping your orisons? When was the last time you’ve even seen a sunrise?”

“I… eh… I may have skipped a few morning prayers… And aren’t those voluntary? Since when are you the religious police, hm?!”

She just grinned, and raised her hands, in gesture to deflect his accusation and calm his concerns. He crossed his arms, but he smiled back eventually.

“So, what’s in yours? It is fancy fabrics, no?”

“Yes. Mostly velvet and velour, some muslin. Good quality threads, hopefully.”

“Fair enough, I get the muslin, and threads I suppose. But the velvet? Isn’t silk locally grown?”

“I could say the same for your colours and dyes; aren’t there local paints you could use.”

“They’re of… lesser quality… at least for the work I’m doing.”

“Same.”

“And the velour?”

“Ah, I’m making a dance dress for the queen. Velour is better for movement. In fact, we’re supposed to have a meeting today about it. Fitting, design, and so forth.”

“Ah, you’ll have a chat with our lovely patron. Give her my kind regards, and tell her that Saiful is making good progress.”

“Isn’t that the guy that’s enamored with you? I thought you had him dismissed.”

“No, that’s Faisal. The royal guard who also the… what was he exactly… the fourth son of the brother or cousin of the captain of the palace guard… I don’t know. I never paid attention when he spoke of himself. Relative of someone working in the court. Doesn’t matter. And he’s still around. Makes sure I’m ‘not bothered’. But no, Saiful is the boy learning drawing and portrait painting. He’s methodical, and has good technique, but he really lacks imagination. See for yourself.”

She took him to the stands.

“This isn’t one of yours?”

Indignantly Astrid objected: “This landscape? Of course not. This is mine!” She lifted the blanket covering the other stand. The picture had a rather odd perspective; it depicted some sort of local temple, a jubilant mass of people in front of it, and a robed figure, likely female, with a pale face and what Godhard could only interpret as reddish squiggles. He liked the details on the temple though.

“Who’s that?”

“Lisa! Or Liese? I’m not sure. The locals chanted her name… or title…” She shrugged.

“Wait, the Lisan?!”

“That might be it.”

“That’s their prophet or something? Why were you there?”

“Oh, I wasn’t there. We were nearby, me and the apprentices, working on this utterly pedestrian—technically well drawn!—but still pedestrian landscape. I got bored, climbed a tree, and had a look with my binoculars. Spotted the crowd, made some sketches. Fun times.”

“You could have gotten hurt!”

“We had guards. Two of them!”

“There have been attacks on foreigners outside.”

“There’s always attacks on foreigners outside. Foreigners are literally the most frequently pickpocketed or robbed group in Siando. That’s nothing new.”

“No, but… there’s been murders and such. Incidents.”

“Involving Prut?”

“Not that I know. As of now.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way!”

***

Eberwald’s Plantation

Erich Lottesson Eberwald was the current owner of the Eberwald plantation. He was the third scion of his family to live and work here. The Eberwald plantation was 280 hectares of good soil ideally suited for growing coffee beans, and by now it had several facilities and related infrastructure to make the processing, transport and export of said beans as efficient as possible. Well, the plantation had had those things. Since this morning quite a bit of necessary buildings, inventory, and produce were… gone.

The night before it had suffered a terrible fire, which soon turned out to be very deliberate arson. A group of twenty or so unknown assailants apparently tried to rob or scare them with the fire—he wasn’t sure. His workers and staff managed to rebuke the attack and force them to flee, but not before Erich was forced to discharge his firearm. He shot in the air, above their heads. It was a large calibre rifle, a quite loud thing, just enough to make those fiends reconsider and retreat. No one died that night, but many were hurt. About half the workers and staff were unfit for work and would remain so for several weeks at least. Some perhaps months. One man even had an open fracture that they barely managed to set, hoping he’d be alright.

As for his inventory and facilities: The fire ruined around 200 bags of beans, it essentially destroyed all raised beds used for drying, spoiling anything that was on them at the time, one worker barracks burned completely to the ground, another was extensively damaged, the guest house had some exterior damage but it was usable enough if aesthetically unpleasing. That’s where the wounded were kept safe. The main residence lost part of its east wing but nothing more extensive than that. Erich also figured between at least a quarter and likely a third of the coffee plants were now… cinders.

They fought men first, successfully, then spent the entire night combating the conflagration with far less success. All the effort, sacrifices, stress, only for him to witness the charred remains of a once great and proud family plantation. He was ruined, and that was only the start of the day for him.

He sat on an empty barrel, turned on its side, with his rifle leaned on it and next to him. His hands were steepled and supported his head; his clothes and hat were singed but he wasn’t hurt. Hurting, yes, but not hurt.

“I have my rights.”

He muttered those words to no one in particular. Even if someone had heard him, without context they would not have been able to understand what he meant. He barely understood it. This particular thought, this line of thinking never occurred to him before, because it wasn’t necessary before. He did have his rights—had this been an accident, a divine act, or perhaps a terrible mistake or mishap of his making, he’d have no recourse. But this was an attack, and he was protected by a treaty between Prutenia and Siando. He never thought that particular article in said treaty had to be invoked.

He looked again at his scorched plantation, the devastated crops and produce, the burn marks on his house, and his bleeding and bruised labourers.

A certain local constable, a certain local representative of the Prut community, a certain government liaison, even a certain queen at a certain palace were certainly going to get written complaints. Some even a visit.

“Fetch me the typewriter, if it hasn’t also burned down. And prepare my carriage.”

[Siando]

The night before it had suffered a terrible fire, which soon turned out to be very deliberate arson. A group of twenty or so unknown assailants apparently tried to rob or scare them with the fire—he wasn’t sure. His workers and staff managed to rebuke the attack and force them to flee, but not before Erich was forced to discharge his firearm. He shot in the air, above their heads. It was a large calibre rifle, a quite loud thing, just enough to make those fiends reconsider and retreat. No one died that night, but many were hurt. About half the workers and staff were unfit for work and would remain so for several weeks at least. Some perhaps months. One man even had an open fracture that they barely managed to set, hoping he’d be alright.

The Lisan had called for a great pilgrimage to the temple at Jalendu, near the city of Raharjo. This ancient shrine was one of the oldest religious sites on the island. Zenshia adherents venerated the temple for its role in the founding of their faith. The holy woman Nisai, beset by visions, had ordered her attendants to seal her inside a chamber of the temple. After weeks of isolation, she emerged with the writings that became the Saari, the foundational text of Zenshia. The Lisan wanted to remind the devotees of that text of their roots, and invoke the legacy of the time before the conquest and colonization of the island.

Pilgrims traveled from all over the island. Some sold their possessions to afford passage on a train across the island, or on a boat sailing around the coast. Others loaded their families onto wagons, hitched them up to a trusty beast of burden, and set out on the roads. The carts and wagons were joined by hundreds of people traveling by foot. The pilgrims sang as they moved, a great mass of people of all ages united in their faith and purpose, singing and chanting songs and hymns that declared their devotion to Kyra, mother to all and supreme goddess of creation, and to her chosen among mortals, the Lisan. “Voice of the heavens! Guide us to paradise, show us the path to salvation.”

A young man named Harta sang along and felt the lingering adrenaline surge from last night’s activities still pulsing in his body. Setting that fire had been a whirlwind of danger and thrill, heightened by the brawling that had broken out when the plantation’s workers had come out to try and stop them. He still remembered with perfect clarity the thundering crack of the gun the owner - some foreigner, he didn’t know or care where he was from - had fired into the air. Harta and the others had been willing to scrap with overseers but no one wanted to risk getting shot before they reached Jalendu, so they had scattered into the darkness.

In the immediate aftermath, Harta had felt a twinge of unease. Some of those he had been fighting with were not foreigners, but Siandoans. Was it wrong to be attacking his countrymen? But Kasih, the Sayyadina who had attached herself to their convoy, assured him that he was doing righteous work. Those who decided to help the foreigners betrayed their people and their island, and deserved to suffer for it. That assuaged Harta’s worries and he reveled in the part he had played without misgivings.

The attack on the Eberwald plantation was one of the more dramatic incidents that occurred during the pilgrimage, but it was not isolated. In other parts of the island, mobs of Zenshia pilgrims attacked foreign missionaries - an especially detested embodiment of foreign presence on the island. Some were merely beaten and robbed, but others were drowned or burned alive. General Yuda, the commander the royal army, did as he was instructed and sent additional troops into the countryside, but they were unable - or even unwilling - to stop the Zenshia pilgrims from leaving a trail of violence behind them as they journeyed to Jalendu.

“Ah, I’m making a dance dress for the queen. Velour is better for movement. In fact, we’re supposed to have a meeting today about it. Fitting, design, and so forth.”

“If these attacks continue, or, Kyra forbid, become more brazen, then we will be in violation of our treaties with the foreign powers.”

Budi, one the Queen’s close advisors, was a man who seemed perpetually unnerved. Yet his mannerisms cloaked a calculating mind and a keen eye for reading the balance of any situation. He was disdained by some as shifty and unprincipled, but he preferred to describe himself as pragmatic. He was also the leading voice in the Queen’s inner circle for greater cooperation and intercourse with the foreigners.

“Let them complain,” replied a rectangular block of a man in ceremonial armor. “The foreigners have become arrogant. They should be reminded that they are here by the Queen’s permission.”

Bagus was the commander of Queen Vina’s palace and personal guards. He was a pillar of muscle wrapped in bronzed skin, and he was known to be completely devoted to the protection of the Queen. However, his devotion often crossed into dangerous territory. He saw the intrusion of foreigners onto the island as a threat to his monarch - not merely to her sovereignty, but her very life. He was also a devout Zenshia and a follower of the recently-declared prophetess.

“The Queen has not endorsed the message of the Lisan,” Budi replied tersely. “And if she did, she would be seen as inciting holy war against the foreigners. And then where would we be?”

“Free of their corruption!” Bagus declared.

“Crushed beneath their boots!” Budi replied.

“Friends, please.” The third man in the room was tall, thin, and dressed in expensive fineries. His lighter complexion betrayed Midsomerean ancestry. Setiawan was charged with maintaining the routines, etiquette, and ceremony of the royal court, and was also responsible for the Queen’s schedule. “The Queen is going to be here soon. I don’t think she would want to see her advisors in such rancor.”

“Spare us your honeyed words, Setiawan,” Bagus snarled. But he did seem to calm slightly, and Budi’s hackles lowered. Only moments later, a herald at the door announced the arrival of Queen Vina. The three men all fell to one knee in genuflection as the young monarch entered the room, trailed by a pair of handmaidens and two towering guards. She bid her advisors to rise.

“I heard raised voices from the hall,” she said with a smile. “What were you discussing?”

“Nothing your highness need concern -” Setiawan began, but he was cut off by the bombastic Bagus.

“The foreigners grow more upset by the Lisan and her message,” he said. “Your majesty, they wallow in ignorance and condemn that which they do not understand.”

“There have been attacks,” Budi chimed in. “By pilgrims traveling to Jalendu.”

“Do we have any proof?!” Bagus, eager to resume the sparring which Setiawan had interrupted, turned to face Budi. “How do we know they are not simply inventing cause for interference?”

The Queen seemed frozen in place, unsure of what to do as her advisors openly bickered in front of her. Finally, it was Setiawan who cleared his throat and brought a moment of calm to the room.

“Perhaps it might be best if the Queen was given some privacy,” he said. “How can she be expected to think with you two shouting at each other?”

“A thousand apologies, your majesty.” Bagus dropped to one knee again, a dramatic gesture which Budi did not imitate. He merely bowed his head and spread his arms, palms open.

“I will consider this matter,” Queen Vina said, after a moment’s thought. “But first, I believe the royal tailor is expecting me.”

The Queen, her retinue, and Setiawan turned and left the room, headed for the appointment with Godhard. Bagus and Budi stared daggers at one another for a moment, and then went their separate ways.

[Neo Prutenia]

The attack on the Eberwald plantation was one of the more dramatic incidents that occurred during the pilgrimage, but it was not isolated. In other parts of the island, mobs of Zenshia pilgrims attacked foreign missionaries - an especially detested embodiment of foreign presence on the island. Some were merely beaten and robbed, but others were drowned or burned alive. General Yuda, the commander the royal army, did as he was instructed and dispatched additional troops to the province, but they were unable - or even unwilling - to stop the Zenshia pilgrims from leaving a trail of violence behind them as they journeyed to Jalendu.

“Pilgrims? Pilgrims!? What are you on about, man?!”

Erich wasn’t in the best of moods. Understandable, given the circumstances. A younger labourer translated what one of the elders had to say—while the Eberwalds usually picked up enough of the local language to be conversational, and obviously to understand and converse with the potentates of the realm, these were new and particularly esoteric words for Erich. Pilgrims. It took a while for the lad and the planter to cobble together enough Prut and Siandonese to get the gist of the yarn the senior spun.

“Zenshia?”

“Local Heliandism.”

Erich raised an eyebrow. As far as he knew, converts to his native faith were exceptionally rare here. Some love-struck fools here and there, occasional businessmen looking to ease trade, as they apparently did with the faith of the cross, other opportunists, and perhaps some genuine folks who happened to be philosophically inclined and found the tenets of Heliandism appealing. But sizable enough in number to have a local Heliandist community? Preposterous. And he was vindicated. The lad apparently meant ‘faith’ or ‘religion’ when he used the foreign word.

“A local faith then.”

“The local faith”, he was corrected by both.

“Fair enough. The local faith then. Why are they burning my plantation and destroying your livelihoods? My kin never bothered the devout, nor my folk for that matter. Why the hostility?”

Both Siandonese men shrugged, having little more than platitudes to offer. To them it appeared self-evident, yet inexplicable. Erich might as well have asked them why the sky was blue—it just was.

“They don’t like foriegners.”

“They don’t?” Erich laughed. “Yeah, I suppose they don’t. Alright. But I was born here. And they won’t drive me off my bloody land.” He laughed again.

He added the pilgrim bit to his written complaints. He could spare two young men from the estate, one to run to the local constable, one to bring a message to his colleague. Erich himself took his carriage to reach the train station and see if he could convince the telegram office there to reach some of his acquaintances and relay a few messages for him. After that only going to the city proper was left.

***

“I will consider this matter,” Queen Vina said, after a moment’s thought. “But first, I believe the royal tailor is expecting me.”

The Queen, her retinue, and Setiawan turned and left the room, headed for the appointment with Godhard. Bagus and Budi stared daggers at one another for a moment, and then went their separate ways.

While leaving Astrid’s atelier Godhard chanced upon Faisal. The guardsman looked flustered, even embarrassed. It took Godhard barely a minute to figure out where Faisal was coming from—from one storey above, where a terrace and outlook covering the eastern courtyard happened to be. It was also a great spot to, say, keep surveillance of anything of note taking place on a particular balcony. He laughed, pretended nothing unseemly was transpiring, and greeted the guardsman.

“Herr Faisal, so wonderful to see the royal guard diligently performing their duties even at this early hour! Most commendable!”

“…ye-Yes! Herr Godhard! Why… of course. We’re the queen’s guard. We always have to be on our feet, make sure her majesty is safe and secure.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence! Then you won’t mind joining me for the fitting, yes?”

“I’m sorry? The … join you?”

“After breakfast. I have an encounter with the queen. I need you for security. You know the protocols.”

“Of course, of course. Protocol, yes. Yes, I’ll be there.”

“See you soon!”

‘Soon’ being the operative word here. Obviously the queen would be up at eight in the morning. She had her own schedule. But Godhard figured Faisal wouldn’t be loitering around the atelier as much. He didn’t think of him as dangerous, mostly harmless and infatuated in fact, but Astrid would have appreciated it.

Back in his quarters, Godhard had a quick bite, a pint of lager, and then started unpacking. He was very satisfied with the delivery. The weavers back home had outdone themselves. But! He still had his work, his actual work cut out for him. If the queen liked the materials and the outfits ended up a success, the rest of the court, and by extension the high society might adopt and copy it, giving him a good import and business opportunity.

He may not have had Astrid’s stereotypically Prutonic features—while he was indeed tall, he had dark brown eyes, black hair, and rather mediocre facial hair, hence why he chose to always shave his otherwise patchy beard and kept only a stylized and thin pencil moustache—but his mind was thoroughly and very stereotypically Prut. Always looking for a commercial angle, always hustling. And his sartorial sense and skills were impeccable.

As befitting a royal tailour, his attire for meeting with the quenn was stylish, expensive, yet practical. Dark, dapper trousers, black leather belt and shoes, both discrete, a white silk shirt with its sleeves slightly pulled up and secured by bands with nice embroidery of red velvet, and a very dashing waistcoat, dark linen with exquisite red embroidery and a discrete lighter geometric pattern. It had all his national colours without being gaudy or garish.

As agreed, Faisal and Godhard met, and Godhard used the opportunity to make the guardsman carry ‘the precious materials’ the queen was to inspect. He kept fast talking the poor man to prevent him from objecting to being misused as a carrier, but he never got the opportunity. Soon they were at the designated room, and he resigned himself to remaining inside close to the door, while Godhard greeted the queen.

“Your majesty”, followed by a bow of the head, and a big smile. “How can I make this day a great one for her highness?”

[Mareyland]

Konom

The R.M.S. Arcadia stood out among the fishing boats and merchant vessels that crowded the harbor of Konom, Siando’s largest and primary port city. The Mareylander battleship’s six turrets - one on each end and two on either side amidships - marked it as a vessel of war, designed to impose its will on others through the immense power of its artillery. It sat almost entirely unmatched in the harbor, for Siando had no true navy of its own. The Arcadia could destroy the island’s handful of customs enforcement and coast guard ships with just its secondary batteries. Only the guns of the coastal defenses, concentrated in two large fortresses near the mouth of the harbor, posed any potential threat to the warship’s well-being.

The Arcadia served as a floating symbol of Mareyland’s power, and its keen interest in the affairs of the island. But while the ship served as a powerful piece on the intricate chess board of diplomacy, its crew were mostly concerned with more personal and practical concerns: Mareyland sailors had quickly discovered the many institutions that existed in Konom to separate them from their wages and provide sundry pleasures in return. The ship also served as a place of commerce, as the officers bargained and haggled with vendors over the prices of fresh fruit, water, and other necessary supplies to restock the ship’s stores.

“It’s a fascinating place, Jim. You know some of the oldest buildings here date to before the first colonization of Mareyland?”

James Walton, captain and commander of the Arcadia, chuckled softly as Adam Higgins, the ship’s doctor, related the stories of his time exploring the city. He sometimes wondered how exactly the bookish doctor had become a Navy doctor. He was far more comfortable in a library than on the main deck of the Arcadia. Perhaps he had heard the “see the world” recruiting pitch and hadn’t stopped to think about what else joining the Navy might entail. But while he frequently poked fun at the doctor’s academic inclinations, he would never suggest that the man was not welcome on the ship. He was an excellent doctor, and the two men had also become good friends in their mutual service.

“Of course, all anyone is talking about is this Lisan business,” Higgins continued. “This mystic woman has the whole island going crazy, if you believe them.” The doctor paused. “Is that why we took on those extra armaments back home?”

“You mean the Buck guns in the armory?” The four Buck Munitions Company machine-guns had been loaded aboard the Arcadia under the supervision of Lieutenant Douglas Niedermeyer, the officious martinet who commanded the ship’s detachment of Marines. There were also two field guns stowed in the hold, though to Captain Walton’s naval eye the artillery pieces were only a few steps above children’s pop-guns, compared to the 12- and 8-inch guns that made up the battleship’s armament. But they would give any landing party a considerable weight in firepower.

“Yes, the machine guns,” Higgins replied, in a tone that relayed his exasperation that the captain would even need to ask for clarification. “The machine guns, and the cannons in the hold. Are we expecting that we might have to use them?”

James Walton shrugged. “I hope not. But it sounds like things are getting more dangerous here. You never know with Orientals.”

“They’re not savages,” Higgins said, defensively. “They have a beautiful culture, Jim. You should see some of the tapestries -”

“Some other time,” Walton replied. “Just, be careful out there, Higgins. The last thing we need is our ship’s doctor getting knocked on the head in some alley.”

“Oh, I’ll be the epitome of caution,” Higgins reassured his friend. “It’s the sailors, out there carousing, you’ll have to watch out for.”

[Siando]

He added the pilgrim bit to his written complaints. He could spare two young men from the estate, one to run to the local constable, one to bring a message to his colleague. Erich himself took his carriage to reach the train station and see if he could convince the telegram office there to reach some of his acquaintances and relay a few messages for him. After that only going to the city proper was left.

The constable for the district that included the Eberwald plantation was a man named Darma. He was liked by most of those under his jurisdiction, who admired how he tempered his zeal for justice with compassion. Most of his days were spent dealing with petty grievances, theft, and the occasional fight. But lately his troubles had multiplied. One of the main roads to Jalendu ran through his district, which meant that Zenshia pilgrims had become a constant sight ever since the Lisan called for her great gathering at the ancient temple. And with the pilgrims came headaches for Darma.

This matter of the attack on the Eberwald plantation was just the most recent, and most serious, complaints that he had received since the pilgrimage began. Other landowners had complained about pilgrims stealing food, including livestock, and setting up camps on their property. Some of these accounts had merit, but others were simply accusations looking for a scapegoat. Darma had quickly discovered that it was very difficult to do anything about these nuisances. There were so many people traveling through the district that it was impossible to track down any one individual. The pilgrims either refused to speak to him, or treated him with scorn, and of course no one answered his questions. When the young man from Eberwald arrived at the constable station with Erich’s complaint, there was little Darma could do in response.

“Tell master Eberwad that I am sorry to hear of his troubles,” Darma told the messenger. “I will write to General Yuda, and see if he might spare a few soldiers to stand guard over his plantation. But I cannot sift through all the pilgrims to find the culprits. Send him my deep regrets.” Darma was truly sorry that he could not do more - the Prut was a decent man who had never given the constable any trouble or cause for concern. Darma had initially tried to correspond with the commander on the scene, but soon discovered the man was firmly in the Lisanite camp and had no interest in doing anything more than putting up a flimsy facade of concern and making vague gestures toward action. So Darma had begun to send letters directly to General Yuda, for all the good it did. Maybe he would show more concern about the attack on the Eberwald plantation, and convince the local officers to show some actual energy.

The Royal Palace, Eko

After she’d left Budi and Bagus and their argument, the Queen had continued to half-listen as her advisor Setiawan had elaborated on the subject that had brought the two men to such raised volumes: the Lisan and her followers.

“I wonder if I should have stopped the priestesses before they crowned her,” Vina wondered. “Then none of this would be happening…”

“It was a difficult decision, your majesty,” Setiawan affirmed. “But had you stopped them, they would have accused you of interfering in religious matters. That would have inflamed the fanatics against you.”

“Instead they’re inflamed against foreigners,” she replied sadly. “Why is the Lisan inciting this violence? My mother always said the Saari taught a way of peace.”

“Not everyone can be as enlightened as your majesty,” Setiawan said. “The Lisan may be misguided, or perhaps her followers misinterpret her message.”

“I wish I could just talk to her,” Vina said.

“The Lisan?” Setiawan asked. The young queen could sense a bit of incredulousness that her advisor was unable to keep out of his voice.

“Maybe I could convince her to end all this violence,” Vina continued. She sighed. “But she probably wouldn’t want to talk to me, would she?”

“It…is hard to say, your majesty,” Setiawan replied cautiously.

When Queen Vina realized they had almost arrived at the room where she was supposed to meet the royal tailor, a smile spread across her face. She always enjoyed the process of selecting new clothing - she loved the excitement of choosing from all the available materials and colors, and then watching the tailor turn those raw materials into a piece of fabulous art that she could wear. It was also a refuge from the pressures of her station - for a brief time, she could put aside her queenly worries and focus on herself, and what she wanted.

“Thank you, Setiawan,” she told the taller man. “I will speak with you later.”

“Your majesty.” The advisor bowed his head and retreated as the Queen entered the room, accompanied by her handmaidens and bodyguards.

As befitting a royal tailor, his attire for meeting with the queen was stylish, expensive, yet practical. Dark, dapper trousers, black leather belt and shoes, both discrete, a white silk shirt with its sleeves slightly pulled up and secured by bands with nice embroidery of red velvet, and a very dashing waistcoat, dark linen with exquisite red embroidery and a discrete lighter geometric pattern. It had all his national colors without being gaudy or garish.

Queen Vina’s smile matched that of her royal tailor as she entered the room. She liked Godhard. The man was skilled in his craft, and a friendly person as well. Being foreign, he was also outside the intrigues of the court. Vina often leaned on the Prut as a sounding board, and sometimes a source of counsel as well. She knew that frustrated some of her other advisors, who disliked the idea of their queen finding any sort of guidance in the words of an outsider. But Godhard sometimes brought a perspective which she found interesting.

Her dress was practical, lacking some of the more ornate accessories and flourishes of the stately court attire, but still marked by the expense of its fabrics and a few tastefully embroidered gems. She had chosen something easy for her handmaidens to help her get in and out of, in anticipation that the tailor might need to make close measurements or fit clothes on her person.

“Your majesty”, followed by a bow of the head, and a big smile. “How can I make this day a great one for her highness?”

“Having this new dress will certainly help,” she said eagerly. “I don’t know if it will solve any problems, but it will help me to forget about them for a time.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the news, all these attacks in the Southern Province,” she said to him as the fitting proceeded. “I hope you do not feel unsafe here. I would hate to lose your skills.”

[Neo Prutenia]

“Tell master Eberwad that I am sorry to hear of his troubles,” Darma told the messenger. “I will write to General Yuda, and see if he might spare a few soldiers to stand guard over his plantation. But I cannot sift through all the pilgrims to find the culprits. Send him my deep regrets.” Darma was truly sorry that he could not do more - the Prut was a decent man who had never given the constable any trouble or cause for concern.

It took a day for this reply to reach Erich. He was less than satisfied, but could muster little vigour.

“Bugger.”

He was now at the local hub town, if one could call it that. Usually he liked visiting this particular place as rare as such visits were; Erich was inclined to pick up his guests, which frequently happened to be family members and somewhat less often business partners from the metropole, and he did so at the train station. Well, train station, post office, and telegraph office. Right now there were no trains, little produce and goods to be moved this time of year, the ports were practically empty of the big cargo ships, and the foot traffic was awful. Truly, truly awful. Pilgrims. Just pilgrims everywhere.

And yet most of them seemed to be rather content, blissfully marching to Jalendu. A nuisance, sure, but hardly the violent lunatics that did him and his so much harm so recently.

Out of a score of them, perhaps one gave him the evil eye. And of these gawkers, maybe every tenth spat in his direction.

He had learned that this was due to his complexion. His people happened to look like most of the people of the cross. Followers of the Iron God—which is how Prut called them. Now, Prut had guns, cannons, and industry, and little need and even less patience for fanciful philosophies and beliefs about the self-sacrificing god and his constant need for adoration. The people of Siando had fewer guns, weaker cannons, and little in the way of contemporary production methods and technologies, which translates to ‘eager listeners for the Iron God’s message’ from the point of view of the disciples of the same. Missionists, or missionaries, or however they called themselves. Some even tried to convert his workers, seldom succeeding. He didn’t welcome them, and many Siandonese were even less welcoming than Erich.

But he looked like them.

He couldn’t help it. He looked like them, so he often got the same treatment, sometimes to his benefit, sometimes not. This was one of those times.

He already tried his luck at the office. The official in charge confirmed several times that there was no train anywhere, that the telegraph line had gone haywire—apparently in some areas overzealous pilgrims cut them as symbols of ‘foreign influence’ or some such nonsense—and that he wasn’t able to help him. No letters also, but that didn’t bother Erich.

So he stood there leaning on his carriage, going over Darma Dougenis reply, and pondering what to do next, while his retainers waited for him to figure it out. Then a rock smashed against the side of the carriage, missing Erich by about twenty centimetres.

“Foreign devil!”

Some lad was behind it. He was about sixteen, or at least that’s what Erich reasonably assumed by his looks. Young, impetuous, and dumb. His elders didn’t seek trouble. He was to inexperienced to phantom potential consequences.

“Oh bugger off, will you! Foreign devil.” Erich mocked the young man in Siandonese. While his accent and pronunciation were off and coloured by his native Prut, his grammar was excellent and his was obviously familiar with the language. “I’ve lived literally twice as long here than you have, kid, and I was born here same as you. I am double the Siandonese that you are, so mind your own damn business!”

The guy's mouth was agape, as if he had never in his life even considered a ‘foreign devil’ could much less would master his tongue. As he stared for a spell, still figuring it out, an older pilgrim placed his hand on the lad’s shoulder and pushed him forward. Soon he’d disappear in the winding mass of people.

“I guess we’re continuing as well…”

“Where to?”

“The capital.” It sounded stupid as he said it out loud. What?—would he just march in there and demand a brigade? … Yes, yes he would exactly do that. “Yes, the capital. We’ll figure it out from there. Come.”

“Having this new dress will certainly help,” she said eagerly. “I don’t know if it will solve any problems, but it will help me to forget about them for a time.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the news, all these attacks in the Southern Province,” she said to him as the fitting proceeded. “I hope you do not feel unsafe here. I would hate to lose your skills.”

Godhard ignored the last bit. The queen seemed upset but whatever she had discussed with her camarilla, or council, or whomever’s duty it was to upset her today. He preferred to actually cheer her up.

“Of course it won’t solve any problems by itself—as much as I would wish that sartorial elegance by itself would suffice—but! It will ease your mind, making it easier for you to solve the issues of the bothersome ‘now’ at a convenient ‘later’. Come, let me show you.”

The royal tailour enjoyed several privileges that few others would dream about. For example, the imperative mood he used seconds ago would get many others jailed. Godhard was however very careful how he exercised such privileges, and he made sure that the context was always appropriate. And it was a good way to feel out the queen’s current mood.

She heeded his call and stepped toward him, meaning she was actually mentally exhausted from the morning ordeal she was put through, and was just eager to relax, and stop pandering to her subjects’ perfect image of how their monarch should behave at all times in all occasions. The queen was human too, and Godhard made a mental note of her mood. His original plan was to have her pick from several designs and suggestions, but obviously this would just be undue strain on her now. So that plan was immediately discarded.

“Oh no, no no no!”

Another ‘dangerous’ privilege he enjoyed was permission to actually touch the queen. Obviously just in a professional manner and only for measures and adjustments, but a ‘dangerous’ privilege nonetheless. He sometimes abused it in the queen’s favour. He gently went over the queen's arms and shoulders, even worked out a kink here and there, then feigned shock:

“Just as I suspected. Her highness is in physical distress, no doubt because of her noble and diligent and constant performance of her royal duties. I cannot in good conscience take your measures and make the dress under such circumstances. The measures would be off, the fit would be less than perfect, and we would risk discomfort if you would to wear it. Maybe even a bruise! No, no, no. Unacceptable.”

Godhard winked subtly to the queen, then continued:

“But we also cannot waste the queen’s time.” He turned to a handmaiden. “Bring us a warm tea, green, and something sweet from the kitchen. Whatever the cooks can come up with. This is an emergency!” He then turned to Faisal, urging him as well. “Guardsman, leave the fabrics on this table and make sure the servants get the requested items. Then block the door, and let no one in. The queen is not to be disturbed. Everyone else? Out! Give her room to breathe and relax!”

He glared at the other servants, faking indignation. His performance appeared to work, and the queen confirmed his instructions as well. Soon everyone was scurrying away wanting to avoid upsetting their queen.

“There you go.” He laughed. “Took us a minute, but her Highness is at liberty to relax now.” Godhard smiled. “Now, traditional dancing attire in the Siandonese style, but new materials and embroidery, or a dancing gown in the contemporary style that would make every visiting dignitary’s wives and daughters envious.” He grinned as he poured both of them tea. “Please say ‘both!’.”

[Siando]

His performance appeared to work, and the queen confirmed his instructions as well. Soon everyone was scurrying away wanting to avoid upsetting their queen.

“There you go.” He laughed. “Took us a minute, but her Highness is at liberty to relax now.” Godhard smiled. “Now, traditional dancing attire in the Siandonese style, but new materials and embroidery, or a dancing gown in the contemporary style that would make every visiting dignitary’s wives and daughters envious.” He grinned as he poured both of them tea. “Please say ‘both!’.”

Vina suppressed a giggle as Godhard went through the motions of his performance, sending the other people in the room hastening to carry out his instructions, once she had confirmed that they should be heeded. Once they were alone, she let herself express her amusement with a laugh. She sat down, feeling very self-conscious as she tried to find the right amount of relaxation to permit herself. Her mother had always seemed to know exactly how to carry herself in any situation, but Vina was constantly second-guessing her own deportment. Godhard was a foreigner, and certainly as Queen she was his better - but they were alone, and she trusted his discretion. She trusted him enough to let him dress her, after all.

Vina leaned back in the chair, graciously accepting the warm cup of tea as the tailor spoke. She considered the options that he presented while taking a sip.

“Both sound beautiful,” she said. “So I think ‘both’ is the correct answer.” It would make her happy and obviously it would please Godhard. Setiawan might balk at the expense but he was clever enough to find the money.

“It seems I must have something to please everyone,” she remarked. She glanced towards a window of the studio, set so that it did not compromise the privacy of those in the room but permitting light and a breeze. From where she sat, she could look out at the city. And somewhere over the horizon was Jalendu Temple, where the Lisan was gathering her followers. Somewhere else was Konom, where Mareyland had sent their warship to keep an eye on her kingdom.

“The traditional and the modern,” she said with a sigh. “Are they always in conflict?”

[Mareyland]

Konom

"Company, atten-shun!"

A dozen pairs of boots stamped in perfect synchronization at the order from Lieutenant Neidermeyer. Captain James Walton could usually barely stand the officious Marine, but for this occasion his obsession with the tiniest details of appearance and drill were invaluable, since they assured Ambassador John Vallette of a prim and proper welcome aboard the Arcadia. If the ambassador noticed the crispness of the Marines' motions, he made no mention of them and showed no obvious response. He acknowledged them with a curt nod of his head and wave of his hand as he hurried up the gangplank and onto the deck of the battleship.

"Ambassador, welcome aboard the Arcadia," Walton said by way of greeting. "I was surprised to hear you were coming to pay us a visit."

The message from the ambassador had given him barely any time to prepare. Visits like this often could make a serious difference in the trajectory of an officer. The ship had to be in perfect condition, as did its crew. Calling everyone back from shore leave had been a headache - in a few cases, men had to be sent out to drag their fellow sailors out of bars or brothels. But they had gotten it done in time, and James Walton was confident that his vessel would surpass whatever inspection the ambassador wished to conduct.

As it turned out, Ambassador Vallette had no interest in an inspection, or even a tour. Instead, he had insisted on a private meeting, just the two of them, and given no further details until they were alone in the captain's quarters. Walton had gotten his steward to prepare a table and chairs, and a bottle of good brandy from his personal cabinet. Vallette had drained a glass of brandy but soon was pacing back and forth in the cabin, while Captain Walton remained seated.

"This damn mystic woman," Vallette was saying. "She's gotten the whole island riled up. And the queen is nothing more than a girl, wearing her mother's clothes. She'll do whatever her advisors tell her to do, and most of them want to throw in with the fanatics." Vallette suddenly stopped his pacing, and looked James Walton dead in the eye. "It's going to be get bad, Captain. And probably soon."

"What do you need from me?"

Vallette started to say something, paused to digest the captain's words, and laughed. "Right to the point. That's good, Captain. I like that about you military men. No talking in circles. Easier than speaking to other politicians."

Walton remained silent, his question unanswered. Vallette filled the silence. "There are around four hundred foreigners in the capital. Diplomats, merchants, missionaries. This holy woman doesn't seem particularly concerned about the particulars of who is from where or doing what. As far as she and her followers are concerned, we're all corrupting devils. And she's gathering an army down at this temple. No one will say it, but that's the way I see things. This 'pilgrimage' of hers is going to end with a call to arms. And they'll be aiming right for the capital."

"When that news hits the city, two things are going to happen," Vallette continued. "The Queen is going to either do nothing or throw in with the fanatics. She doesn't have the temperament for anything else. That means all the sandies are either going to turn on us or step back and let the fanatics have at us. That's going to lead to mass panic, and everyone with white skin is going to try and get out before they get eaten alive or whatever it is these people do. They'll be heading for Konom, to get on a ship and get the hell out. But they'll be easy pickings on the road."

Walton listened intently. He was beginning to get an idea of what Ambassador Vallette was going to ask him to do. It wasn't pleasant.

"How many men could you put ashore, armed, and still function as a warship?"

There it was. "Well, there's the Marines," Walton began, thinking through it as he spoke. His ship had been loaded with two companies of Marines for this assignment, in anticipation of such a contingency. Besides them, he had plenty of weapons in the armory for his own sailors. Mareyland sailors were trained in infantry tactics, so that they could be armed and equipped as naval infantry and serve in landing parties alongside the Marines. "Plus what I can spare from the crew...maybe around 200 men or so? That would be just under 400 men, total."

"Four hundred men," Vallette said.

"Closer to 350," Walton insisted. It was really more like 380, but he didn't want the ambassador developing an inflated idea of the kind of force the Arcadia could put ashore. He also decided not to mention the machine guns or the field guns in the hold. Those would be force multipliers, but Walton was already getting a bad feeling about what John Vallette was thinking of doing with his men. He was in no mood to give the politician more rope with which to hang the sailors.

"It will have to do." Vallette reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some kind of document that had been folded many times to shrink its size. "This is a map," the ambassador explained as he handed it over. "It's the most detailed one I could manage to obtain. This will show the roads from here to EKo, terrain, things like that. Everything you need, hopefully, to plan a march."

"You want me to send a landing party all the way to the capital?" Walton couldn't keep the incredulity from his tone. It was an insane proposition. And then once they got there..."And then back, with four hundred civilians to protect?"

"Precisely, captain." Vallette was dead serious. "I know it's a pretty tough assignment. But if we don't have some kind of protection - our own protection, not relying on the locals - when things turn for the worse, then not a single white person is making out of that city alive."

[Neo Prutenia]

Office of the Syndic, Hanseatic Republic of Prutenia

Syndic Darnborger was a rather busy man of dour disposition. The only joy—if the man was capable of expressing joy, that is—he experienced, was when he was directing the vast Prut trade network spanning most of the globe. There, at his fingertips, he was connected with every place everywhere and everywhen, or nearly so; shipping reports, telegraph lines, transcriptions of heliographic messages, and increasingly messages transmitted via wireless telegraphy, and so forth. Darnborger also had a fondness for the classic courier, a simple man on a horse, relaying messages as well, although those were losing and quite a lot so against the speed of modern communication. Under him served throngs of bureaucrats and officials, neatly dived into departments each handling a specific area or specific sphere of interest.

In ideal conditions he would never see any department head and he could sit back and coordinate when and where necessary, and write policies. Occasionally he would check the numbers and make sure they were written in black after all the reckoning was done, and preferably the leftmost numbers would increase or the rightmost end of the sums would have another zero added.

Other tasks—diplomacy, warfare, social policies, etc.—Darnborger very much preferred to delegate. The ‘Ledger Spider’ didn’t care for those. Diplomacy was ‘time wasting prattling’, war was ‘wealth wasting nonsense’ and social policies were ‘wasted on uppity laggards’. So, when he sensed some disturbance in his net, he neither recognised the potential diplomatic nor social implications. He only noticed a stop in communication from Siando and that that issue had to be resolved. And since he couldn’t send a man on a horse given that Siando was half an ocean away, that task would fall to whomever was supposed to handle naval expeditions and diplomatic visits this month or year or for however long they were supposed to be employed. The unenviable honour of solving this issue would fall on the Officer for Foreign Affairs, Bülgenritt.

Bülgenritt convened with his associates as soon as possible, finding little that could be done without dispatching a ship to Siando.

“What about Märenland?”

“What about them? What do they have to do with Sjanden?”

“The Märners might still have a telegraph line running. We’re using different stations, and different cables. And we have a direct line to them. Perhaps they’d be willing to share intelligence.”

“Worth a try, I suppose. Although I fear what we’ll find out.”

Mareyland and Prutenia had stable diplomatic relations for over a century now. This came with the usual baggage, a conflict here and there, cooperation otherwise, butting of heads, clinking of glasses. Given that both nations had interests in Siando, some sort of arrangement would be beneficial, and a communication would be key to avoiding confrontation. The message was soon dispatched over usual channels.

“We have lost contact with our community on the island of Siando. Telegraph office or lines appear to be cut. If Mareylander lines are still operational, would you be willing to relay for us? We have received disturbing news from the island earlier. Civil unrest? Can Mareylander sources corroborate? We are planning to dispatch a naval expedition soon. Does Mareyland recommend arming up? Please advise.
Signed, Bülgenritt”

***

It took Eberwald a while. Winding roads, sideways, endless delays, and several unpleasant encounters with the so-called pilgrims. But he was finally there. In the bloody, bonkers, and blighted capital, and he was just about ready to give them a piece of his mind. Only his body didn’t agree with his mind as much as he would have preferred; he was tired, exhausted even. The nags pulling his carriage where at their end and badly needed to rest. Same could be said about his travel companions, who just seemed miserable and hungry after the previous ordeals.

“Delayed yet again, I suppose. Let’s get something to eat, somewhere to rest, and gather out wits.”

The statement was met with much approval.

***

“It seems I must have something to please everyone,” she remarked. She glanced towards a window of the studio, set so that it did not compromise the privacy of those in the room but permitting light and a breeze. From where she sat, she could look out at the city. And somewhere over the horizon was Jalendu Temple, where the Lisan was gathering her followers. Somewhere else was Konom, where Mareyland had sent their warship to keep an eye on her kingdom.

“The traditional and the modern,” she said with a sigh. “Are they always in conflict?”

“Always?” Godhard stroked his chin and considered the question. “Hm, are the traditional and modern always in conflict? To be honest, I wouldn’t know.”

He took a sip of tea, then made a few adjustments and corrections on his sketches. He noticed how perfectly silhouetted Vina was next to the window and in that particular light, so he gestured to her to not move.

“I’m not much of an abstract thinker. I do concrete things and I react to what I see.” He stressed this by raising his sketch and showing it to Vina, then continued: “This for example. I know you have an audience here, who expects a certain image. Which is why we’ll create the most fitting dancing gown to make the temple dancers and even the goddesses admire your flowing moves and elegantly emphasised figure. But, Siando is not an island.”

As the queen naturally raised an eyebrow, Godhard laughed, then quickly explained.

“Siando is no longer just an island, it’s part of the world. And the world is curious and cruel, wonderful and terrifying, beautiful and greedy, dangerous and amicable, but also just. Maybe not always fair. But it is just! It’s here, it’s knocking at your gates. Another audience. And that audience has other, similar but different expectations. It’s on you, your highness, to win the world over, by any means necessary. And this includes the dance floor in the ballroom!” He raised the other sketch, the contemporary design, which now had a more pronounced but still discrete bustle and a narrower shape at the waist, with a bit of cheeky padding in the front, ditching the décolletage while still accentuating the shape.

“I would recommend that… well, two things actually. First, her highness should consider some exquisite jewelry to accompany the dress, something to draw eyes when you’re resting but which would not distract while dancing and conversing. Sapphire and rose gold perhaps… yes. A properly facetted padparadscha would blend well with your skin tone.”

He made notes.

“Sorry, I got carried away a bit there. The second recommendation!” Godhard smiled. “I would ask her highnesses royal painter for advice on tradition versus modernity. Astrid has a knack for such things and is a keen observer of social subtleties and mores, even though she respects barely any herself. Although knowing her preferences, she will tell you that they are in conflict, and that modernity always wins, but she will explain it nicely and far more thoroughly than I possibly could.”

He thought about the last part for a moment. Astrid would likely have more insights to share, but then again that tomboy would also just as likely recommend to the queen to aim every cannon under her command at the Lisan’s temple and barrage it into oblivion. She’s funny like that.

“It is always useful and often good to get a different perspective, and as a woman she might have an insight I wouldn’t be able to even consider. Although, please do not actually visit her atelier. That workshop is not fit to host a queen!” Godhard laughed, obviously exaggerating what a mess Astrid’s work space was. “More tea?”

[The Free Fascist State of OklaTexas]

Thank you for this fascinating RPG. I attempted to telegraph Siando, but some 'security check' beat it back. May I join? I promise no tech beyond 1901. Hopefully I can play as my nation or a friendly arms dealer. Again, thank you.

[Siando]

Jalendu Temple

The great temple was built into the side of a mountain, one of the peaks that stretched across the southwestern coast of the island. Pilgrims walked up the long and winding pathway to the mighty columns that marked its entrance. Standing at this height, they could look down and see the city of Raharjo, nestled between the mountains and the sea at the mouth of a valley. The city had always been a bastion of traditionalist Zenshia - it had been one of the last of the southern cities to surrender to the Edumaean conquerors, and it's difficult terrain had always permitted it to resist their imperial grasp more than the cities on the plains. Fueling this spirit was the city's proximity to the temple where their faith had first originated - the faith that now called its followers to come and hear the words of the Lisan, the guide to paradise.

The young woman had spent several days in isolation, following in the footsteps of Nisai. She had gone without food or drink, entering a state of delirium, crying out to the goddess Kyra. When she emerged, she was faint with fatigue and deprivation and had to be carried by her attendants to a bed. As she recovered from her ordeal, the number of pilgrims outside the temple swelled to a huge, teeming mass. Vendors milled about, selling food and drink and religious trinkets. So many people arrived to hear the words of the Lisan that the temple's priestesses worried that there would be no space for more, and some poor person would fall off the side of the cliff where the temple sat.

As the pilgrims waited for their prophetess, they talked among themselves. Stories and rumors traveled across the crowd. It was said that the Queen herself was coming to hear the Lisan. Others said the Queen had been deceived by her advisors and was sending soldiers to kill the Lisan. Someone claimed to see foreign soldiers landing at Raharjo. People shared tales of abuse at the hands of greedy foreigners. A roiling anger simmered among the faithful.

When the Lisan emerged to speak, everyone fell silent as if struck dead on the spot. She was dressed in the striking violet robes she had worn on the day of her ascension, and her face was painted in that same combination of bone white and red accents. She spoke, loud but not strident. Many in the back strained to hear her, but her words would be passed among the crowd. She spoke of the great strength of the faithful. They had survived the Edumaeans and their attempts to stamp out the Zenshia religion. They had overthrown their oppressors and the corrupted Siandoans who served them. Now they were a free people.

"Are we free?" The Lisan asked her followers. "Are we free? Foreigners bring their greed to our shores. They rape our lands for coin. They have no respect for our way of life!"

The Lisan began to whip the crowd into a fury. She recounted tales of exploitation and abuse. She reminded the people that their own Queen was not among them. The Lisan did not condemn the Queen outright - even the most fanatical among her followers still held some reverence for their young monarch. But to say the Queen was being manipulated, taken advantage of by her advisors, and by the foreigners - this was a powerful sentiment.

"Our mothers and fathers before us threw off the chains of the Edumaeans," the Lisan said. "Now we must finish their work! This island has been freed, but it must be purified! We shall march to the capital! We will free our Queen from those who would blind her to the truth of what has happened to her people. We will save her from the lying serpents of court! We will cast out the foreigners and their false gods!"

The crowd roared. Any doubts or misgivings were swept away in the tide of religious fervor. Things only rose to further heights when the Lisan descended the steps of the temple and walked among the people, who fell to their knees in prostrated worship. Then she began to lead them down the mountainside, towards the road that ran from Raharjo towards Eko, the capital. As word spread of her mission, the number of people swelled. Soldiers of the local militia joined, and brought their weapons. Messengers were dispatched to other temples with news of what the Lisan had declared. This was no simple pilgrimage - it was quickly becoming a crusade.

[Siando]

Vina watched with fascination as Godhard sketched. She had no skill in drawing or painting - she had never found the patience that was needed to hone such talents. Singing and dancing came more easily to her, and she had pursued those passions in her youth. She was amazed by, and not a little envious of, the tailor's ability to spin vibrant images with pencil and paper. She was listening as he worked.

"It’s on you, your highness, to win the world over, by any means necessary."

She felt some of the nervousness return to her chest. That was the great burden: the fate of the entire island rested on her actions. She could not afford to act unwisely - yet there were so many voices who each offered a different course of action, and all of them argued that theirs was the wise choice. How could she judge? What if she judged poorly?

Her worry was replaced, temporarily, with elation as Godhard turned the sketches to her and showed the Queen his designs. She was entranced. "They are both beautiful." A flash of hope lit up Vina's features. "Maybe this is a sign. Two different dresses, but both worn by the same person. Maybe there is a balance to be found, instead of conflict."

“It is always useful and often good to get a different perspective, and as a woman she might have an insight I wouldn’t be able to even consider. Although, please do not actually visit her atelier. That workshop is not fit to host a queen!” Godhard laughed, obviously exaggerating what a mess Astrid’s work space was. “More tea?”

"Thank you," Vina said. "Not only have you given me two new dresses to anticipate, but you've given me wise counsel as well." She was about to hold out her cup for more tea when there was an urgent banging on the door, and before either of them could say anything Bagus, the commander of the palace guards, burst into the room.

"Your Highness," the muscled warrior said as he bowed from the waist. "A thousand apologies for the intrusion, but we have received a message of great urgency from Raharjo."

Vina rose from her seat. "What has happened?"

"It seems the Lisan has sent her followers marching towards Eko," Bagus said. His tone seemed inconsistent with the gravity of the news. He sounded almost excited by the announcement.

Vina gasped. "What is she doing?"

"She has said she wants to rescue you," Bagus replied. "From those who have been misleading you. From the corruption of foreign influences." At this, his eyes briefly narrowed as his gaze fell on Godhard. Then his attention was back on the Queen. "The other members of your council have asked for a meeting, at once, to discuss what to do."

Vina nodded. "That sounds like a good idea." She turned back to Godhard. "I must take my leave." Turning back to Bagus, she pointed to the pair of soldiers who were waiting outside the room. "Assign a guard to the royal tailor, and another to the royal painter. They are under my personal protection, and I do not want them to worry for their safety."

"Of course, your majesty," Bagus replied. Then the Queen was gone, with Bagus and the rest trailing in her wake. A single sentry remained near the door, looking somewhat unsure of what, exactly, he was supposed to do now.

[Mareyland]

“We have lost contact with our community on the island of Siando. Telegraph office or lines appear to be cut. If Mareylander lines are still operational, would you be willing to relay for us? We have received disturbing news from the island earlier. Civil unrest? Can Mareylander sources corroborate? We are planning to dispatch a naval expedition soon. Does Mareyland recommend arming up? Please advise.
Signed, Bülgenritt”

Leesburg

The situation on Siando was the kind of thing that threw a wrench in the gears of Mareyland politics. It was too public to simply set aside or handle quietly, but only really of interest or importance to certain factions. Within the National Republican Party, the conservative political party which held the presidency and a slim majority in the Senate, the friends of the merchants involved in the lucrative Oriental trade wanted assurances that their investments would be protected, while the more aggressive would-be imperialists like Senator Philip DeShay wanted Mareyland to plant its own flag on the island. National Republican Party Senators who represented the interests of the great rural slaveowning planters did not share their enthusiasm, which put them in a strange sort of consensus with their opponents in the Liberal Democratic Party. These Senators, who represented the interests of middling-class voters, had no desire to see treasure or blood spent advancing the economic interests of their opponents.

President Emmanuel Dewey and his cabinet leaned towards the interventionist side. Dewey, a former Army officer, had pledged to expand Mareyland’s armed forces. He had successfully persuaded the Senate to allocate more funds to warship construction and officer training. There was now an urge to prove that those funds had been well-spent, and preferably in a setting where the potential risks were diminished. A petty war in Siando offered such an opportunity, but it would carry political baggage. Senators like Leland Newton would howl. But those howls might be drowned out by the cheers of the public, if it was done well.

“There’s also the matter of Prutenia,” the Secretary of Foreign Affairs, James Prescott, told the President in a meeting at the Mansion. “Working with them will add some complications, but it’s better than working at cross purposes.”

“The Pruts are solid people,” the Secretary of War, George Santeen, chimed in. “They’ve got some strange ways, but they’re dependable. And it sounds like there’s no sense in trying to keep them out.”

A reply was crafted and cabled back to Prutenia:

“We are also experiencing interruptions in communication with Siando. Our Ambassador on the island reported an increase in violence. Appears directed against foreigners by religious fanatics. The ability of the Siando government to fulfill treaty promises has become uncertain. My government is strongly considering intervention to protect Mareyland citizens and interests. I recommend our governments coordinate any military action. Signed, Prescott.”

[Mareyland]

Konom

Captain James Walton was roused from his sleep by an urgent pounding at the door to his cabin aboard the Arcadia. Standing on the other side of the threshold was the ship’s second-in-command, First Mate Martin Shaw.

“What is it, Shaw?”

“Sir, the ambassador is back.”

“The amba – Vallette? He’s back?” Walton shook his head, as if trying to fling the fatigue from his mind. The ambassador had just left a few days earlier. Now he was back again – and with no advance notice. A small knot of dread began to tighten in the captain’s gut. “Did he say why?”

“Said he’d only talk to you direct,” Shaw replied. “And he’s got some sandy with him that he says needs to be included.”

“Alright.” Walton sighed. “I’m past trying to figure out what mister Vallette is up to. Have the native searched for weapons and then bring them to me.”

Walton hastily threw on the parts of his uniform that he had discarded for his nap while First Mate Shaw left to carry out his instructions. He was looking decently presentable by the time another rap on the door signaled that his unexpected guests had arrived. John Vallette entered first, followed by a light-skinned Siandoan. Walton hadn’t sought out much information about the island beyond that which was of military relevance, but he’d picked up some bits of pieces from the ship’s doctor, Adam Higgins. The people around Konom, and the lands this side of the mountains in general, had a less dark skin tone than those further north. They were also more likely to be fellow Elkesaites, even if they tended to follow the Edumaean rite. Indeed, this particular Siandoan had a small symbol of the faith, a saltire cross within a wheel, hanging from a thin chain around his neck.

“Captain,” Vallette said by way of introduction. “I know this is unusual but things have progressed just like I predicted. That mystic woman has set her fanatics marching towards Eko, talking about ‘purging corruption’ and that sort of thing. It’s time to get our people out of the capital. Are your men ready?”

“I’ve briefed my officers,” Walton replied. “But this isn’t something we can just launch in a moment. We’ll need to gather supplies, and transport.”

"Transportation has already been arranged," Vallette said. "I've managed to get a hold of a train - that could take you as far as Eko, but I suspect the fanatics will have cut the tracks somewhere along the line. So I spoke to Lajan Bayani, who governs Konom and the area around it." The ambassador gestured to the Siandoan standing silently next to him. "Daud is one of his trusted men. He will help with acquiring other transport." Seeing Walton's skeptical look - the unspoken question 'can we trust him' forming in the captain's mind - Vallette hastened to add, "The people in this part of the island are Elkesaites, just like us.”

“We want nothing to do with that mad woman and her prophecies,” the Siandoan said in a deep voice. “If she has her way, they will slaughter us, too. We share the same enemies,” he added firmly.

Walton took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he processed what the ambassador had said. The whole idea still struck him as foolhardy. But if the ambassador was right, he couldn’t afford to sit back and do nothing when it might mean fellow Mareylanders could face a howling mob of fanatics.

“Alright,” he said, finally. “I’ll set things in motion.”

“Things should be smooth sailing until we reach the border of Bayani's realm," Vallette promised. "Once we cross that boundary, we’ll be in Indijan country.”

Indijan country. That old term for the frontiers of Mareyland, where white civilization had yet to penetrate and overpower the savage natives. It was a phrase that meant danger lurking behind every tree and bush. It was not an especially comforting turn of phrase. As Vallette and the Siandoan made their departure to make their part of the arrangements, Walton began to give the necessary orders. Lieutenant Douglas Niedermeyer had his Marines draw their weapons and extra ammunition, as well as prepare the Buck machine guns for loading. Teams of sailors hoisted the two 3-inch field guns out of their storage in the hold, while others drew their own armaments and prepared to go ashore.

Walton left First Mate Shaw in command of the ship, and buckled his saber and revolver holster onto his belt. He wasn’t going to leave this to the command of someone else – he owed the men the respect of taking on the same dangerous journey. Adam Higgins, the ship’s doctor, was among those selected to accompany the Marines and the “bluejacket” armed sailors.

“We may need your skills,” Walton said grimly as the shore party began to form up on the docks.

“I sincerely hope not,” Higgins replied. “James, this is a dangerous game the ambassador has us entering.”

“Unfortunately,” Walton replied. “We’ve got no choice but to play it out.”

[Siando]

The Rustam Valley, named for the mightiest the rivers which ran along its length from the mountains to the sea, was a land apart from the rest of Siando. Rugged mountains dotted with active volcanoes guarded it on three sides, leaving only the northern shore and two pathways in the southern range as means of entry or exit. The larger mountain pass was called Keratos, and its southern opening was guarded by the fortress-city of Kuwat, which had seen a many sieges over many, many years. The other way to cross in or out of the valley was not a gap in the mountains but a winding, rising and falling trail over them, barely passable by men on foot and worthless for any beast of burden.

While the southern plains now had a few tendrils of railroad connecting some of the larger cities, not a single mile of track had been laid in the valley. The port of Konom bustled with commerce, but there was no great port city on the northern shore - it lacked a good natural harbor, and the depredations of Batao raiders and pirates from the Amihan Islands had kept the coastal towns and fishing villages from growing into anything resembling a city. The fields of the valley were fertile and there was great mineral wealth buried in those mountains, but exploiting either was far too difficult and expensive for the foreigners who had flocked to enrich themselves under Queen Vina.

The people of the Rustam Valley were predominantly Oruba - the oldest inhabitants of the island. Their skin was darker than the Teguse of the southern plains, and while they shared a language they had little else in common. The Oruba followed the Amasi faith, venerating the spirits that resided in the mountains, and the rivers, and the clouds in the sky, and the spirits of their ancestors. They adorned themselves with tattoos and carved intricately detailed figures to serve as recipients of their prayers and offerings. While the Teguse had built great cities and crowned themselves as Lajans, the kings of petty kingdoms, the Oruba lived in seasonal villages, traveling to different locations when the storms of the rainy season began to beat down on the island, and moving again when the winters brought relief from the worst of the heat and humidity. There was only one real city in the valley, the trading center of Isagani, where clans would meet to exchange goods and conduct ritual diplomacy. The Oruba remained sequestered in their small groups, only occasionally banding together under some charismatic warlord who led them to plunder the wealth of the southern plains.

News of the Lisan and her zealotry had been slow to filter past the mountains into Oruba lands. When it did, most dismissed it as another madness of the southern peoples. It was not their concern what the Teguse did to themselves or the foreigners - only that those foreigners be kept out of their valley, as they had been so far.

[Neo Prutenia]

Vina nodded. "That sounds like a good idea." She turned back to Godhard. "I must take my leave." Turning back to Bagus, she pointed to the pair of soldiers who were waiting outside the room. "Assign a guard to the royal tailor, and another to the royal painter. They are under my personal protection, and I do not want them to worry for their safety."

"Of course, your majesty," Bagus replied. Then the Queen was gone, with Bagus and the rest trailing in her wake. A single sentry remained near the door, looking somewhat unsure of what, exactly, he was supposed to do now.

“Good luck, your majesty!”

Godhard fastidiously picked up his stuff—sketches, materials, notes—making sure to leave nothing behind. Out of politeness and appreciation for the staff he also cleaned up a bit after them and moved the tea and cups to table closer to the door, where it would be more convenient for the servants to pick it up. After making sure he did everything right and nothing was amiss he tried to leave only to bump absentmindedly into the confused guard.

“Right! I apologise, friend. It slipped my mind that the queen ordered you to… ‘guard’ me?”

Godhard assessed the guardsman. He seemed competent enough but perhaps not familiar with acting as a bodyguard. It probably wasn’t that different from guarding a place, guarding a person that is. And there probably wasn’t any real danger, not to him at least. Who in their right mind would even bother to harm a tailor. Or a painter. A tailor or a painter.

Who in their right mind… in their right mind…

He looked at the sentry again.

“I suppose the two of us are friends now, until the queen relaxes our duties. I’ll try to make it easy on you, good sir guardsman. Neither of us wants to make the queen upset, true?”

“True…”

“There you go.” Godhard smiled. “let’s visit the painter, sort this out, yes?”

He didn’t much wait for a reply. Godhard practically slid between the guard and the doorframe and went down the very much familiar route at a brisk pace. He couldn’t help but me at least somewhat concerned about the possible safety issues within the palace and Siando at large. He supposed he, and Astrid of course, he supposed they were both reasonably safe.

He looked back for a moment—the guardman he failed to ask what his name was, was following him at the same brisk pace, and at least that guy appeared more focused and alerted than Godhard—good. Very good. He relaxed. Just a bit. A smidge. It was still a vigorous pace to the atelier.

No sentry there. Godhard entered without even bothering to knock. He found his friend occupied with a canvas, one brush in her hand, another in her mouth, and colours everywhere. She glanced at him, and gave him a nod to acknowledge his presence.

Godhard was happy to see her. Just then he noticed she had her own guard; looked pretty much the same as his guy, only a bit more disinterested. He was inside, leaning on the wall just right from the door, occasionally listening and looking what was going on outside.

“Excellent! I see you’ve gotten your own guard already.”

“Hm?”

Godhard pointed at the man ostensibly looking after her safety.

“That guy? I thought he was just shy.” She waived at him. “Hello. Make yourself comfortable.” She continued her work.

“So, did you remember to tell the queen about Saiful’s recent progress?”

“Did you miss the part that the security of the palace is possibly jeopardised and that the queen had to assign personal bodyguards for us to keep us safe?”

“So you didn’t remember?”

“You’re being very cavalier about this…”

“Maybe.” Astrid finished a few more strokes, the put the brushes down. “So what? Are you afraid?”

“I believe in some cultures my current state of mind might be described as ‘afraid’ at least somewhat, yes.”

“I wouldn’t bother. Any plot to murder to the two of us, or either of us individually I guess, is inconvenient and a waste of time better spent on more pressing matters. And it would upset the queen. They like their queen, Godhard. Why would they upset here?”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Mhm. Coffee?”

***

“We are also experiencing interruptions in communication with Siando. Our Ambassador on the island reported an increase in violence. Appears directed against foreigners by religious fanatics. The ability of the Siando government to fulfill treaty promises has become uncertain. My government is strongly considering intervention to protect Mareyland citizens and interests. I recommend our governments coordinate any military action. Signed, Prescott.”

Bülgenritt went over the reply again and again. Increase in violence could mean anything. Did they start smashing windows or smashing heads. Supposedly religious fanatics. He blamed the Mareylanders for this, them and their incessant proselytizing; of course it riled up the other folks obsessed with their death cults and afterlife in the bloody clouds.

”What a bother”…

As if Mareyland would consider any sort of intervention out of the blue. The costs alone. For us to coordinate, that’s your recommendation dear colleague, he thought.

Mareyland may be playing this one close to their vest, but Bülgenritt had options, and ideas. He just had to figure out a way to pass this by the ‘spider’ without upsetting the balance sheets too much, or preferably at all. A military intervention would be expensive, especially on flimsy excuses. Still it would be prudent to minimize current expenses and secure alternative funds in case things went south.

He went over the reply one more time. Maddeningly he came to the same results, same thoughts, same conclusions. While Prut and Mareylander may not be alike in religion and spirituality in any way, shape, or form, they were very much alike in shape and form and colour, enough so that a mob of zealots wouldn’t bother to distinguish them.

If Prescott understated how volatile the current situation in Siando was, a month from now Bülgenritt would be forced to organise a punitive expedition to Siando, likely having to play catch-up to the Mareylanders. If he subtly overstated the danger and Bülgenritt acted now, Prutenia would likely have to bear the brunt of the costs for what would essentially be a policing action and show of force, while Mareyland would come off as the reasonable party.

“Well played, sir. Well played… but which is it.”

Bülgenritt wasn’t alone in his office, although he was talking to himself right now.

“Herr Bülgenritt?”

“Yes?”

“Could they just be honest?”

“Honest?”

“Maybe they are having the same issues and also don’t really know how to respond.”

“My secretary, my very own secretary implying I’m ascribing maliciousness to our friends from the far north? How hurtful and insinuation that is!”

He made his secretary laugh, then joined him, albeit not appearing to to be merry at all.

“Perhaps I’m overthinking this. I suppose it’s a professional deformation of mine, to perceive any possible betrayal or manipulation as if magnified and more malicious than it actually is. They hardly could have planned this. Foreseen? Yes! But planned? No.”

“An opportunity then, perhaps?”

“Elaborate.”

“Well, Herr Bülgenritt, perhaps it doesn’t really matter what happens in Sjanden. So the coffee would get more expensive for some time? Who cares? We can increase imports from other suppliers. And exports to Sjanden aren’t extensive. Losing that market, even permanently, wouldn’t noticeably impact Prutenia. It’s a nice thing to have, for sure, it’s a good opportunity, but it’s just an island with a plantation based economy. I think the wine and finery their elites buy from us are more a matter of prestige rather than money.”

“Fair enough, lad.”

“So, why not use this opportunity to strengthen relations with Mareyland?”

“And to project a certain perception, a politically and diplomatically convenient one. Mareyland’s a good trading partner and useful ally of convenience in the far north. Why not? Let us play the reliable trading partner and ally, see how they react.”

Bülgenritt smirked, seizing up the young man who offered his advice.

“Smart head on your shoulders. I appreciate the new perspective you gave me. Keep up the good work, lad.”

He took the rest of day to connect a few more dots and arrange some logistical matters; Prutenia still had the telegraph line to Nidan, an island located southeast of Siando, although there was quite a bit of ocean between them and Nidan was much smaller. And it was a coaling station for Prut vessels, with a garrison, and an industrial harbour. The military presence was, however, minimal. For now. The Batao people, the natives, were generally a content lot and friendly hosts to the Prut, but not exactly known for the martial prowess. Nidan would serve just right. By now Bülgenritt was also made aware that a large cargo vessel was supposed to be in Konom, the Bienenstich. Not exactly a passenger ship but she could ferry people and evacuate quite a number should it become necessary. And he obviously instructed his secretary to discretely buy stocks relevant to coffee as well as stock up on coffee in general.

So, a day after Mareyland sent it’s reply, their receivers got a new message from Prutenia:

“Understood. Nidan, SE of Siando, is a Prut garrison and coaling station. It shall provide logistical support and operational range. We should unify assets there and coordinate from Nidan. Send liaison. Konom, Siando. Prut cargo ship, ‘Bienenstich’, should be present. If possible to contact, request it to assist in ferrying or evacuation if necessary. May our enemies crumple under cannon fire,
Signed, Bülgenritt.”

***

Eko, Siando

To say that Eberwald was frustrated would be quite the understatement. Every attempt he made, every angle he tried, every avenue he pursued, was for naught. No results. The guard was too busy, the palace was apparently in lockdown, or so he was been told, and the capital appeared to be either run or overrun by lunatics. It was difficult to tell, and Erich wasn’t disposed to parse the nuances at the time. The authorities were overwhelmed. Or worse, infiltrated. There were sympathisers in the city, some even in the employ of the ostensibly foreigner-friendly administration. And there were Zenshians too. Pilgrims.

Perhaps the vanguard, he thought to himself. Hopefully not.

They found a place to rest, a lovely tavern in mixed foreign and Siandese styles. Good tea, passable beer. The proprietor was a follower of the Iron God, the same one the Mareylanders venerated. He had a cross around his neck, but he didn’t bother either him or his workers. The proprietor probably assumed they were brothers in faith. Come to think of it, Erich never even bothered to ask if his retinue were believers and to what entity they prayed if at all. It never really appeared important, until such a short time ago, when these bedlamites burn his plantation.

After a few unpleasant encounter his men convinced Erich to stay in the tavern. Few foreigners could be seen in Eko in the open. Very, very few. And quite a few apparently got a sound thrashing. So they ran errands and tried their best while he waited. Until today, when one of his retainers came back with a bloody nose and shut eye. Freshly bleeding.

Erich ran out, catching a glimpse of the assailants. Pilgrims… One of them had a bloody nose too. Erich raised his firsts, while the pilgrims contemplated returning to the entrance of the tavern and apply that trashing that was the current fad in the capital. As soon as his retainers joined him outside, the pilgrims reconsidered, spat in his general direction, and departed.

“What happened?”

“Apparently they don’t like my choice of employer.”

“They’re beating their own now. Madness.”

“You shouldn’t have gone outside, Herr Eberwald. Now they now you’re here.”

“Good. I owe them a bout of two of fisticuffs for blooding my friend. Might as well have an encounter if the guards ignoring this.”

[Mareyland]

So, a day after Mareyland sent it’s reply, their receivers got a new message from Prutenia:

“Understood. Nidan, SE of Siando, is a Prut garrison and coaling station. It shall provide logistical support and operational range. We should unify assets there and coordinate from Nidan. Send liaison. Konom, Siando. Prut cargo ship, ‘Bienenstich’, should be present. If possible to contact, request it to assist in ferrying or evacuation if necessary. May our enemies crumple under cannon fire,
Signed, Bülgenritt.”

Leesburg

Discussions of how to proceed on the issue of Siando were held among a small, select group: President Dewey consulted with a few of his trusted political allies in the Senate, and the relevant Secretaries - George Santeen, Secretary of War, and James Prescott, Secretary of Foreign Affairs. The informal brain trust had gathered for a working meal at the Presidential Mansion to determine how to move forward, having received the latest message from the Prut government.

"May our enemies crumple under cannon fire," President Emmanuel Dewey read aloud from the cable. "Well, it's certainly an aggressive way to close a message."

"That's the Pruts for you," Secretary of War George Santeen replied. "They're a hard people. Good friends in a scrap, bad enemies to have.”

“We beat them during the Revolution,” Senator Matthew Fairville asserted, with the confidence that comes from repeating a narrative he had been told and believed since his schoolboy days.

Prut soldiers had indeed been among the forces opposing Mareyland’s independence - Gristol, their former colonial overlord, had obtained the services of Prut soldiers-for-hire to bolster its own royal troops. They had earned a reputation as hard fighters and thorough plunderers. One of the most celebrated victories of the war had been a successful surprise attack by General William Lee’s Congressional Army on a detachment of Prut troops quartered in the town of Huntersville.

“That’s ancient history,” Santeen replied. “And hardly important now. And besides, their base at Nidan is closer than any of our own."

“Getting the Pruts involved could complicate the long-term situation,” Secretary Prescott chimed in. “If things on Siando really are getting as bad as Vallette says they are…”

“Do you think he’s exaggerating?” President Dewey asked.

“I think he’s not a man inclined to go look for himself, unless the trouble is right outside his door,” Prescott replied. “So he might be passing on a story that’s gotten bigger with each retelling. But, he’s not a man given to outright fabrications. So I think there’s enough truth in his reports to consider what that means for the future. If the Queen can’t uphold her obligations under our treaties, then we may have to take a more direct role in the island’s administration.”

“You’re talking about taking over the island,” Dewey remarked. His tone did not hold objection, merely curious contemplation.

“I’m talking about protecting our interests,” Prescott continued. “Siando represents a point of major economic and - I’m sure George can say more on this - strategic importance in the Orient for us.”

“Having control over Siando does offer major advantages,” Santeen added. “Konom has an excellent harbor, and it’s close to Shimono and other places. I know there was an attempt made to negotiate the lease of a naval base with the last queen a few years ago, but it went nowhere.”

“I was part of the delegation,” Prescott said. “It was that queen who stonewalled us. She didn’t want us getting too comfortable on her island. But, to the point: if this becomes a joint operation with Prutenia, that could complicate the settlement.”

“The Pruts aren’t empire builders,” Santeen opined. “They’re merchants and traders by nature. If someone interferes with their trade, there’ll be hell to pay, but they don’t go planting their flag. Besides,” the Secretary of War added, “Won’t it be easier to work with them, instead of at cross purposes? If we’re operating jointly, we’ll have a better sense of what their intentions are.”

“And it might mean we need to send fewer of our own boys…” Senator Fairchild added.

President Dewey considered it for a moment. “Who’s commanding the Oriental Squadron?”

“Commodore Grimsley,” Santeen answered.

President Dewey knew Horace Grimsley by reputation. He was a hard sea dog, far more at home on the deck of the battleship than anywhere on land. He was gruff, tough, and tended towards force as a resolution for thorny problems. Perhaps not the best diplomatic representative of the Republic, but certainly a capable commander and one not shy of making difficult decisions.

“He’s stationed at Port Joseph?” At Santeen’s nod of affirmation, Dewey continued. “Alright. Order him to assemble his squadron and sail for Nidan.”

“Between their guns and their Marines and bluejackets, that’s a good size force for a small fight,” Santeen commented. “But if it’s more serious, we’ll need more men.”

“Let’s get an update from Vallette,” Dewey told Prescott. “And if we need to mobilize more forces, then we’ll have to go to the Senate.”

“I’ll start making the rounds,” Senator Fairchild promised. “See if I can’t whip support ahead of time.”

“Then it seems we have our plan,” Dewey declared. “Good. Now, how about dessert?”

A message zipped along the telegraph lines back to Prutenia:

“Mareyland Oriental Squadron, Commodore Horace Grimsley commanding, has been ordered to rendezvous at Nidan. Commodore Grimsley is authorized to speak as plenipotentiary. Will pass on any additional news from Siando when it arrives.”

Port Joseph

The island of Montanui was a tropical paradise, located on the western edge of the great Oriental Sea. It was the home of the Pualani people, who had a proud and lengthy tradition as seafarers. Their ancient ancestors had sailed from island to island, until finally settling permanently on Montanui. They had lived there, undisturbed by the world at large for many years, until Captain Joseph Cheffe had arrived with his ship, battered and thrown off-course by a storm. Cheffe had been indulged by the Pualani and departed with news of the paradise island. Soon more Mareylanders had arrived, and the Pualani found themselves being dragged remorselessly into the modern age.

Now the island was a territory of Mareyland, and the Pualani were second-class citizens. The island was covered in plantations growing sugar and bananas and other valuable goods, and the pristine harbor where Captain Cheffe had first cast his anchor was a fortified naval base, and headquarters for the Oriental Squadron - the the division of the Mareyland navy responsible for patrolling the waters around Siando, Shimono, and other Oriental lands.

An underwater telegraph line connected Montanui to Mareyland, and so it was only a matter of hours after the meeting in Leesburg that Commodore Horace Grimsley received his orders to assemble the squadron and sail for Nidan to rendezvous with the Pruts. The Squadron consisted of three protected cruisers, with Grimsley aboard the Fitzpatrick as his flagship. Fortunately, the message from home had arrived in one of the rare moments when all three ships were in harbor at Port Joseph, so they could proceed as a single force immediately, rather than waiting for ships to return from patrols. The instructions from the Admiral of the Navy made it clear that his mission might include the landing of a shore party, so Grimsley made sure to bring on extra small arms from the armory of the Port Joseph naval base. He also cannibalized the island’s military garrison for as many extra Marines and bluejackets as he could - quarters aboard the ships would be cramped, but the benefits of extra firepower and manpower easily outweighed the discomforts it would impose.

Siando

As Ambassador Vallette had anticipated, the railroad from Konom to Eko had indeed been cut some distance from the capital city. Captain Walton couldn’t judge whether it was some kind of deliberate strategy to isolate the capital, or merely an unfortunately-timed outburst. The railroads were a particular target of resentment among those Siandoans given to oppose the presence of foreigners - they were loud, smelly, obvious reminders of the intrusion of modernity into their island paradise, and they had brought considerable disruption to the areas through which they had been built.

Luckily, the Ambassador’s preparations and connections with Lajan Bayani had also paid dividends. Apparently forewarned of the break, Daud - the Siandoan whom Vallette had brought with him to the meeting on the Arcadia, but who had disappeared once the train had pulled out of Konom - had been sent to rustle up alternative transportation. He soon arrived with a collection of carts, and a small herd of carabao - the horned beasts of burden that seemed to be as equally numerous as the people of the island - to pull them. He assured Vallette and Walton that the drivers who accompanied the draft animals were all Elkesaites, and could be trusted.

The Marines and sailors were soon busy moving supplies off the train and onto the carts, and hitching the two field guns up to teams of carabao. Meanwhile, Captain Walton conferred with Vallette and some of his subordinates. The most important question: “How much further to Eko?”

According to the maps they had, they were more than half the distance between the port and the capital. “If we march through the night,” Lieutenant Neidermeyer said, “We could reach the city by morning.”

“And if we pause?” Walton considered the Marines gluttons for punishment, and assumed they would be eager to prove their physical fitness with a forced night march, but it might be too much to ask of his bluejacket sailors.

Neidermeyer looked at the map, obviously doing some rough estimations in his head. “Mid-afternoon, probably? Depends on how long of a pause we take.”

Walton looked over to the edge of their impromptu perimeter, where a small crowd of Siandoans had been growing steadily since the train had halted. How many of the people watching the Mareylanders were just driven by simple curiosity? How many of them might pass word on to the fanatics of their approach? Was speed preferable to good condition? Walton was not a commander of ground troops - he could answer that question in a naval scenario far more easily.

“I’d rather get there later, with fresher men,” Walton confided to Vallette.

“Delay could prove hazardous,” the ambassador reminded him. “The fanatics are on the march too. If we wait, they could reach the city before us and undo the whole point of this expedition.”

Walton decided not to remind the ambassador that it was he, and not the captain, who had set “this whole expedition” in motion. Instead, he turned to Daud, the Siandoan representative of Lajan Bayani.

“Do you know how close the Lisan is to the city?”

Daud shook his head. “No, Captain. We have only rumors. Some say they are still days away. Others say they are already at the city gates.”

More uncertainties. Walton’s trepidation about this venture was growing by the hour. After a moment of silent anticipation, he made the decision. “Let’s move out. No stopping.”

The call went out and the Siandoan drivers urged their beasts into motion. Walton put his Marines at the front of the column, then most of his bluejackets, and the carts at the back with a small rearguard. The long line of men and animals took up a large portion of the road as it moved, forcing other travelers to divert to the sides and either travel off the road or wait for them to pass. Overhead, the setting sun cast the sky in colors of brilliant orange and blood red.

[Siando]

The Royal Palace
Eko

The great throne room of the palace was a long hall, designed for ceremonies. Its walls were lined with symbols of Siando, and reminders of their past. Two tattered flags were hanging on either side of the mighty throne. They were a deep blue, with the image of white tree encircled by green laurels in the center. They showed the signs of not just the passage of time, but of battle - they were dotted with bullet holes, and one of them had been slashed by some kind of blade. These were the flags of the Edumeans, the conquerors who had dominated Siando for generations. They had been ripped from the dead hands of the Edumaean army in the battles for Eko and Konom, the victories that had destroyed their dynastic grip over the island. They were displayed here as reminders of the power of the people of Siando.

General Bagus, commander of the Royal Guards, studied the two war trophies intensely while he waited. To him, these were not mere relics. They were reminders of the struggles that won the island its freedom. The Edumaeans had ruled for two centuries and yet they had been cast down in little more than a year. The signs of divine favor were unmistakable. The Mother Goddess Kyra had blessed the Great Rebellion with success. Would he now be forced to watch as apostates and nonbelievers sold away that hard-won freedom?

“General Bagus.”

He was not surprised by the sudden appearance of the other man, who seemed to step out from the shadows. Bagus had not heard him enter, but that was to be expected. The bhotani were notorious for their mastery of stealth - and their proficiency with a knife. They were the finest hired blades on the island. Normally, for the General of the Royal Guard to associate himself with such an assassin would be a dishonor worthy of immediate expulsion from the ranks, if not imprisonment or execution. But as Bagus continued to stare at the Edumaean banners, and the empty throne between them, his final doubts washed away under the strength of his convictions. These were desperate times. They called for extraordinary measures.

“You know whose death I seek,” he said to the assassin, who was clad in concealing robes that covered his face, save for a pair of steely blue eyes.

“Budi, the Queen’s advisor,” the assassin replied. “Why does one servant of the Queen seek the death of another?”

“He is a danger to our island,” Bagus declared. “If he is not silenced, his poisoned words will drag the Queen down the path of ruin. Once he is gone, she will see clearly.”

The assassin did not reply. “You know the price,” was all he said.

Bagus nodded.

“It shall be paid,” he confirmed.

The masked man stepped back into the shadows of the hall. There was a sound like a door opening, and Bagus turned to look towards the main entrance, suddenly worried that someone might have overheard him. But the doors remained closed. When he looked back to where the bhotani had stood, there was nothing - as if he had evaporated into the air.

Bagus took one last long look at the throne, then hurried off towards his private chambers. He would pray for the goddess’s forgiveness…and wait for news of Budi’s death.

***

It happened in a brothel, on the other side of the market. Budi was a regular patron of this particular establishment - while he considered himself a man of the modern age, he was still a man with a man’s desires. He had become the sole paramour of a lovely woman from the northwestern coast, a voluptuous dark-skinned woman of mixed Batao and Oruba heritage. Budi had lavished her with gifts, mostly expensive clothing and jewelry.

During one of his visits, two bhotani slipped unseen into the building and made their way to the private rooms reserved for Budi and his concubine. They found the advisor lounging while the woman finished bathing. One of the assassins slipped into the bathing room, clapping a gloved hand over the woman’s mouth and keeping her restrained. Budi had barely registered her muffled cry of surprise and alarm when the second assassin snuck up behind him and plunged a thin triangular blade into his throat.

The bhotani were not cruel killers - Budi died in an instant. The two assassins vanished before anyone outside the room knew what had happened.

The guard was too busy, the palace was apparently in lockdown, or so he was been told, and the capital appeared to be either run or overrun by lunatics. It was difficult to tell, and Erich wasn’t disposed to parse the nuances at the time. The authorities were overwhelmed. Or worse, infiltrated. There were sympathizers in the city, some even in the employ of the ostensibly foreigner-friendly administration. And there were Zenshians too. Pilgrims.

Perhaps the vanguard, he thought to himself. Hopefully not.

At Jalendu Temple, when the Lisan had called for a march on the capital, her followers had been armed with little more than clubs. But as the procession crossed the southern plains, it grew larger - and more well-armed. People brought hunting guns, or old weapons last fired during the Great Rebellion. Others brought spears, bows, and other simple weapons. And while the clubs were crude, they were no less effective when swung by hands possessed by the fervor of religion.

Soon, soldiers began to join the procession. General Yuda, the commander of the Royal Army, had dispersed battalions of men throughout the troubled regions, in a vain effort to stamp out the flames that the Lisan had kindled with her words. Instead, many of these detachments threw their lot in with the anointed messenger of the goddess Kyra and joined the procession. In some cases, soldiers rose up against officers who sought to restrain them, and even killed a few. These soldiers brought their arms with them - modern rifles and even some pieces of artillery. The march to Eko looked more and more like the movement of an army.

Word of this approaching army was flowing into the capital, as were the rumors of a foreign army coming up from Konom. There was an urgency to transactions in the market, as people hurried to stockpile food in case of violence or a siege. Groups of Zenshians began to proclaim the coming of the Lisan in the streets, and incidents of violence against foreigners - and Siandoans seen as too friendly or subservient to foreigners - increased. The Royal Guard, who had responsibility for the city of Eko as well as the palace, was hard-pressed to keep the peace - and in many cases, the men had little inclination to help, since they shared the belief of the pilgrims that foreigners and their lackeys should feel unsafe in the city.

[Neo Prutenia]

Rochlände, Nidan

Kühn was breathing heavily; just moments ago he had darted across the field, passing the first defensive line only to be caught up with a more formidable second one. He was surrounded and they were closing in. Time slowed down, a moment stretching indefinitely. His vision sharpened, his eyes jumping from opponent to opponent. They were ready to intercept him, but he figured when it came to pure speed he could beat them. The terrain, situation, and their bigger reach worked against him, and he was running out of time. A particularly huge boulder of a man was charging straight toward him furiously roaring… it was now or never.

He counter-charged hoping to confuse him, to make him hesitate just for a moment. Even a split second would be enough. He ran, keeping calm; Kühn stared the giant directly in his eyes, either to provoke him more or perhaps intimidate him. Whatever would work better—the former did. The boulder of a man ignored the rest of the world, single-mindedly focused on Kühn. He got his split second.

A quick dash, followed by an expertly executed pivot, and he passed the ball to his teammate. Too late the giant noticed what just occured. Mere moments later the crowd was screaming ”Goal!” and Kühn was smirking. His friend had a clear shot from the left, kicking it around the entire defence before even the goalie could react properly.

The giant crossed his arms, a sour expression on his face. He glanced at his teammates, who also realised the ruse too late to do something about it. They shrugged at him. Kühn couldn’t help but start grinning evidently very, very much self-satisfied with the whole manoeuvre.

“You alright, big guy?”

The ‘big guy’ was named Malosi, and insisted on being on first name basis with Kühn.

“Isbrand, I am very fine. Got you sweating there for a moment.”

“Nah, Malosi. I trust you to play nice. It’s a game, after all.”

“Right. Right, it’s a game.”

A game that was going so far poorly for the natives of Nidan; permanent Prut presence on the island goes back 12 years, and regular visits and dealings perhaps twice as far back into the past. Nidan was doing well from their relationship with the Prut. So well that they’ve started to import more than just material goods from Prutenia. Football was among the chief new imports and a rather popular one. The former warrior caste took to it with gusto, while the female populace of the island very much enjoyed the spectator part of the sport—it must have been those tight shorts and frequent displays of male athletic ability. Even princess Vaitiare, the eldest of the current baran of Nidan, was present and cheering, and apparently doing so for the Prut team. Baran Kamea didn’t appear to mind his daughter’s cheering and seemed to enjoy the game quite a bit.

The baran had promised his “warrior-athletes” a feast should they win, and a castigation should they dare to disgrace his house. Alas, as time ran out the end result was 5 to 1, and even the one goal they managed to score was a courtesy from the Prut team, just to avoid embarrassing their hosts. So no feast then, and a bit of loud reprimanding echoed through the isle. Perhaps the native Batao had become too used to the Prut craftsmen and labourers and the few bureaucrats and academicians as football opponents—in those days the teams were more evenly matched. The soldiers and garrison troopers which were becoming more and more ubiquitous on Nidan played much better than their countrymen.

What a strange place Nidan had become since those twelve years.

It wasn’t particularly large but it had an odd shape giving it two natural harbours. It was located somewhat far—in oceanic terms of course—from convenient trade winds and sea currents. In a way the Batao of Nidan had been stranded on their island for centuries. But they never had a need to leave. Nidan was unusually fertile, blessed in abundance with an ‘earth’ the Prut newcomers referred to as “phosphate”. In addition it had three islets very close by, which were favoured nesting spots by sea birds, thus they had deposits of guano. And the waters around it were rich in fish, so much so that those alone could have fed a population fifty times larger than the native Batao. A variety of fruits and vegetables, eggs, meat, fish, it was a cornucopia. No wonder the island housed a sizable 21 thousand folks, nineteen thousand being the Batao.

The Prut weren’t especially interested in the produce of Nidan. The islands location was of significant strategic interest. It was an excellent spot for a coaling station and it had all the prerequisites for an industrial harbour, and it was a convenient place for telegraph cables and stations. Thus a deal was made with the baran, some documents were signed, some stone monuments documenting the deals had been erected, and the Prut began their task of seducing the islanders. It didn’t take long for fine wines and cool beer, luxuries and sweets, and novels animals products and meats to win over the local Batao. The friendship was sealed by the services the Prut provided, mainly medical ones, and to a lesser extent educational and entertainment services. It was no coincidence that the first clinic, vocational school, and music hall were all built in contemporary Prut styles. This was followed by a football pitch, and a bakery.

In time the Prut presence would grow. The phosphate and guano resources of Nidan, and the large fish yields soon became economic drivers for the newcomers. The harbour was expanded to accommodate both military vessels and the increased traffic and cargo. A cannery was opened and it soon provided a steady profit for its proprietors. Miners came. The island’s first brothel, of three in total, opened soon. And at some point the Prut garrison grew, and grew, until a simple barracks became a proper Zwingburg. While never colonised, most people in Nidan were keenly aware that they had to be careful with their ally. The Prut meanwhile were subtle and courteous about it. A takeover in the near future was inevitable, and likely desirable as well.

Princess Vaitiare was even schooled in Prutenia, having spent 6 of her twenty one years or so abroad studying. She also happened to be the preferred heir for the Prut. Baran Kamea wouldn’t rule forever, and her two brothers were unlikely to be able to rise to the challenge to lead Nidan into a brighter future.

So the game that the “warrior-athletes” of Nidan just lost was a bitter affair for some, and an obvious sign for others. Perhaps it was naïve of Kamea to cheer and enjoy himself so much; princess Vaitiare however knew quite well what she was doing and for whom she was rooting for. Luckily cool beer, expenses covered by the winning team of course, were provided to dampen the sting of the defeat. Kühn, the captain of the winning team, didn’t get to enjoy the post-game revelry, as he was summoned by his commander, Götzbrech for something urgent.

Soon he would be in the office of the commander within the Prut Zwingburg’s fortifications, knocking on a door.

“Captain Kühn? Ah yes, come in. Have a seat.”

“Thank you, commander Götzbrech.” Kühn quickly went through the required protocols and salutes then sat down and continued: “I didn’t expect you to want to congratulate me personally for the win.”

“If only, captain. If only.” Götzbrech stroked his chin. “You speak the language of Märenland, no? You’ve even visited it, didn’t you?”

“Twice, yes. Once in my teens, and again in my early twenties. Before that I only knew it from paintings that are now a hundred years old. And it’s nothing like those paintings now. I do happen to have family there, in Annesburg. I speak the language well but with an accent, so I’d be a bad spy.”

“Ha! Nothing that sinister. We’ll get visitors soon, from Märenland.”

“Translation work then?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“I can handle it.”

“Excellent. Even more so since you’ve been there. You’re familiar with them? As people I mean?”

“Generally, yes. They are a paradoxical people, very much obsessed with material wealth and temporal power, but oddly serious about their religion. They trace their lineage by the fathers, so naturally the Märner men are insecure and domineering. If we’re having visitors, expect men and only men, and expect them to be irascible and easy to offend. Otherwise they’re a reliable bunch. I’ve noticed they tend to be brave and dutiful, in particular the military men. They are supposedly loyal and resourceful, which I believe to be true, but I never got to test that.”

“How come?”

“I was never long enough there as a visitor, so friendships and acquaintances were short and informal. But I think they value loyalty, and they expect it too. And Annesburg is a rich city, a city of plenty. There is little reason to be resourceful in a place where you can find practically anything. There it was easy to work for anything you desired. The countryside and frontier however? Different story. Never got to visit those though.”

“Fair enough I suppose. I trust your judgment on that. Any taboos I should know about? Are they the ones that don’t drink alcohol?”

“No, commander. That would be the people of the crescent. They Märners are people of the cross. They drink. Wine is part of their religious rituals even. They eat most of what we eat, they’re just picky eaters.”

“That will make playing host easier then. We have wine.”

“Commander, if I may ask, why are me hosting Märners anyway?”

“It appears some sort of trouble is brewing in Sjanden. The telegrams have been peculiar. But I’ve been instructed by the Metropole to prepare Nidan for a joint military action. The Märners are joining us here, and a flotilla from home will join soon as well.”

“Odd…”

“It probably politicians on both sides trying to create a show of force to Sjanden and get some sort of concession or two. It wouldn’t even be the first time.”

“Well… you can count on me, commander.”

“Oh, and you’re no longer to participate in football matches.”

“What?! Why?”

“Can’t risk you getting injured. Your our best Märnisch speaker.”

“I… I suppose.”

“And I really do not wish to spoil the mood, but you’ll have to tell the men that come tomorrow we’re starting with regular drills again, in earnest.”

“I have to break the news to them?”

“We’ll essentially have an inspection here, probably within the week. Now, I know you all enjoy your island paradise life and I don’t mind as long as things are functioning properly, but we have to be at the top of our game if we want to keep our jobs. So, the next few weeks will be drills and exercises, to get everyone in shape, impress the diplomats, and have them leave us alone. Football doesn’t cut it. And I need you to motivate the troopers, since, captain that happens to be your job.”

Götzbrech grinned. There was sternness to his voice but no ill intent. He genuinely did want his men in shape and ready for action, perhaps out of caution, perhaps just to impress his superiors. Regardless he was right. Kühn sighed.

“Yes, commander. Asking permission to let the men enjoy this evening and have the drills start tomorrow two hours later than usual.”

Götzbrech raised an eyebrow. He just gestured with his head to Kühn to elaborate.

“Commander, I take responsibility for my men. I know them best. Letting them enjoy their win tonight will encourage them and keep morale high. I can guarantee you they’ll be drilled and ready when the flotilla from the Metropole arrives.”

“Permission granted.” Götzbrech rapped his fingers on his table rhythmically. “Don’t disappoint.”

[Neo Prutenia]

Royal Palace, Eko

”Godhard! Godhard!”

The currently shrieking voice calling out Godhard’s name belonged to no other than his good friend and countrywoman Astrid. She let herself in quite nonchalantly and quickly scanned the room assigned to Godhard; rather large but befitting a royal tailour, with many fabrics, threads, and textiles strewn about, several sketches on the walls, and the royal tailour himself next to a mannequin, his mouth full of pins, straining to figure out how to fasten some bit in the most proper way to create the dress Vina had been promised. Astrid failed to notice, or perhaps didn’t care to, that his mouth was busy as she angrily darted across the room and started poking Godhard in the chest.

”I want your guy. Give me your guy.”

She waited for his response, obviously expecting an affirmative one and to be delivered rather quickly. Godhard however did not indulge her. He raised an eyebrow, and in the most painfully slow and drawn out manner possible removed each pin separately with the tip of his fingers, one by one, and placed them on a nearby table, them smacked his lips, before answering:

“Hello Astrid. Nice to see you. It’s been a few days now, what have you been up t…”

Astrid’s finger was over Godhard’s lips as she shushed him, several times. Rude, he thought. He was right though. He hadn’t seen since the incident, and the palace was on alert. Godhard passed the time focusing on his work, and he in a way imagined Astrid was doing the same. But apparently not. He pushed her hand away with his forearm.

“For someone working with delicate brushes and frequently having to display manual finesse and dexterity, you have extraordinarily strong fingers. Scratch that, I know engineers with less grip strength. Have you been arm wrestling the last few days?”

“Just the once. I’ve won, naturally. Also I’ve been making sketches of palace events, and this bloody square, this block of dumb meat has been shadowing me in the most obnoxiously loud and conspicuous manner possible. How am I supposed to capture scenes for posterity if the brute scares everyone off. All the naturalism, gone! Gone! Give me your guy, have mine. He can stand around you, won’t bother you nearly as much as me.

“Hold on. You’ve been spooking around the palace?! While we’re on high security alert?”

“Making sketches, yes. To turn into a series of paintings. I was thinking five. You know, doing my job. My job being‘making paintings’ for our patron, the queen of Sjanden.”

Godhard started to rub his temples, both hands eyes close. He was going for it.

“So you’ve been spying around?”

“What?! I have not. What are you on about?

“It certainly appears that way. At least to some. The island is in turmoil, the queen is in danger, people are dying, and you’re sneaking around the palace. That’s a bad look every which way you turn it.”

“Fair point actually” Astrid was considering it now. She still wasn’t convinced, not completely, that this whole affair wasn’t blown out of proportion. She was convinced quite a bit that at least some folks would act out of stupidity rather than malice or precaution. Not some folks, most folks. Most would.

“So you’ll stop unnecessarily exposing yourself to danger and paint a target on your back?

“No.”

He was concerned. She was smiling, beaming even.

“I’ll just be more careful.” Astrid hit him playfully in the thigh. “Good talk, thank you!” She then turned to her assigned bodyguard and continued the conversation in Siandese. “Got what I needed from my colleague. Let’s move! We have a lot of palace events to cover!”

***

Office of the Syndic, Hanseatic Republic of Prutenia

It has been an unusually lively few days in Bülgenritt’s office, much more than what he preferred. The deliberation about and with the Mareylanders and the fiasco waiting to happen in Siando were additions to his otherwise busy but predictable roster of duties and priorities. At least he got some more news corroborating that whatever was happening in Siando was definitely in no way good or desirable. Yet still no direct connection to the island. With nothing left as an alternative, Bülgenritt was forced to actually send someone there and have look.

The base at Rochlände on Nidan had already been instructed by cable to contact the armoured cruiser “Donnergroll”, the largest, most modern, and most impressive Prut military vessel operate that side of the equator. Luckily the “Donnergroll” was currently patrolling in an area three days away from Nidan, to the north east. The dispatch ship shouldn’t have trouble finding her, it would just need a bit of luck to find her fast and reroute her to Nidan then Siando.

Bülgenritt also had to consider which other ships to send. And he didn’t have the convenience of the “Donnergroll” already being present and easily reassigned. After about two days of deliberation with the admiralty two adequate ships were found; the protected cruisers “Werkstier” and “Beharrliche”. Among the last protected cruisers to be built in Prutenia, they were to be relegated to oceanic commercial protection anyway, since the class was considered practically obsolete in case of war with contemporary thalassocracies. But they looked fancy and impressive enough to dissuade nations lagging behind. Nations like, say, Siando.

The “Werkstier” was on a training mission near equatorial Prut outpost. She was close enough to rendezvous at Nidan soon, far before the Mareylander fleet would arrive. The “Beharrliche” had to be sent from Prutenia, among other things carrying the diplomatic liaison for the mission, and was likely to arrive after the Mareylanders. But this shouldn’t pose much of a hindrance. Both the “Werkstier” and “Beharrliche” sailed light, sacrificing ammo and cargo to increase coal supplies so as to maintain top speeds and increase their range.

Which meant the Prut government had to send cargo ships to Nidan that would bring ammo, supplies, fuel, and other necessities of war. Which meant increases in expenditures. As Bülgenritt was to handle this whole affair, tax increases or special taxes were not an option, as that would involve the parliament. Discretionary spending was Darnborger’s prerogative—so another ‘no’ as the spider wasn’t known to let anyone dip into that particular coffer. Donations or bonds were not a plausible possibility unless there was an actual war, and they were hoping to avoid that. Favours it was.

***

Rochlände, Nidan

Commander Götzbrech wasn’t kidding when he wanted his men in top shape and presentable. He relented on the first night and first morning, but after that Kühn had to drill his subordinates and drill them hard. Yet even this practice was turning into an odd spectacle for the native Batao of Nidan. They were used to a more laid-back and casual Prut presence. Sure, the workers were diligent but they were easygoing in the evenings. And the soldiers were capable but usually good for a laugh and not too stern. Now they were seeing proper Prut discipline and protocol in action.

Just before the early grey of dawn a brass bugle would wake the now more and more grim and imposing looking garrison. The troopers would do their morning communal orison, in uniform, after which they had to run around the main island. At the same time the garrison staff would set up a field kitchen right at the spot they had their matins at and they’d start cooking. By the time the troops did the round the first meal of the day was ready—some hearty stew made from stock, vegetables, and meat from their home. The islanders generally didn’t know if they loved their stew because it was from home, or because they had to go through several morning exercises and run quite a few kilometres before they got their meal.

And the Batao were curiously observing this ‘aberrant’ behavior. Sure, most work was done in the early morning and early evening, as the sun was otherwise too oppressive most of the year. But the Prut didn’t seem to have a reason to do this ‘work’. And it did seem like rather hard work, as they got an hour of respite after the ordeal.

The field kitchen was then stripped and returned inside the fort, and the soldiers were allowed to ditch elements of their uniform which were too hot for the tropical noon sun. But they had more work! They went to a comparatively deserted part of the island, carrying with them a good chunk of their equipment and wooden panels, four men for each one, which then then erected as a semicircular wall around themselves. Then they would proceed to make a lot of noise behind their wall, ‘wildly’ shooting at no one in particular. As this was a rather loud and repetitive activity, only the most curious Batao, usually nosy children and the terminally bored, would peek over the wall to observe them.

They had painted circles at one end, in the direction of the open sea, and stood at the other. And they shot at those circles. ‘Targets’ they called them. Similar to their game of “Fußball” in this one participants also could score, but they had to hit specific spots on the targets or shoot a specific number of times under a minute. The captain, Kühn, was the sole arbitrator who did well and who didn’t. He reprimanded the latter, and showed them how it’s supposed to be done, insisting they repeat after him until they could satisfy his ‘absurd’ standards. And this would go on until the afternoon hours. Then they would pack up everything again, and return to their base, thus having wasted the entire day in this odd endeavour.

But the soldiers didn’t seem to mind. Quite the contrary, since they were singing whaler songs as they returned to their base. Well, not ‘whaler’ songs per se, but something akin to such songs. Most Batao had to judge this by cadence and rhythm as a vast majority didn’t speak the Low Prut language. And they were also happy as they would get a second meal after that, and then they were free to relax in the evening.

The Batao were not foolish, they understood that the Prut were practicing for combat. They just didn’t exactly understand how these specific actions helped. Their warriors swam and hunted and fished to keep their bodies strong, and they wrestled and fought each other. And these guys just carried around heavy things and shot stationary targets. When asked, the soldiers gave unsatisfying answers—Oh, we’re sharpening our eye, we’re drilling our fire rate, we’re upping our endurance and so forth.

“Isbrand!”

Kühn was in deep communion with his cup of tea as Malosi approached him. Malosi was the biggest and strongest warrior of Nidan, a respectable man, and his eyes and general demeanor suggested he had some business with the Prut military man.

“Talofa, Malosi. Nice to see you in the pub. Fancy a cuppa with me?” Kühn smiled as he greeted him. “Talofa” was the first word and his go-to phrase he learned in the islanders' language. But he never bothered too much to master it.

“To drink, yes. But your ‘chai’ I don’t like.”

“What brings you to me, big guy?”

“You’ve been… training for days now, Isbrand.”

“You keen senses and observational aptitude indeed do not fool you, Malosi. We have been training for days now.”

“The people are getting uncomfortable.”

“Are they?”

“You… ‘march’ for hours, then you make a hellish noise for hours. You’re disturbing the peace. People are just afraid to bring it up.”

“Would you rather we shoot during the morning?”

“Hm… I would prefer you didn’t, I suppose.”

“Evening then?”

“No, I suppose you picked the best time of day. I’d rather you cease shooting.”

“It’s been cleared with baran Kamea, Malosi. We’re not in the wrong.”

“But why, and why so suddenly?”

“To be prepared, to be ready…”

“In case of war?”

“In case of war, yes.”

“On Nidan?”

“Haha, no. Not on Nidan. Don’t you worry, Nidan is under our protection.”

“Nidan is under our protection, Isbrand. Baran Kamea has his warriors.”

“Indeed. That’s what I meant. We’re allies, no? If someone messes with Nidan, we’re helping our allies. But we have the ships, so we intercept them. If they land, obviously you’d take care of intruders. We take care of the sea, you take care of the island. Simple, no?”

“Exactly!”

“Tell you what, big guy. Why don’t you join us tomorrow? The common folks would be more at ease if they see their traditional warriors and protectors joining their new allies and friends for training.”

“Nah, your training doesn’t suit me and mine. Too loud, too much walking.”

"The island isn't that big, Malosi. And we build a barrier to reduce the noise. Come on."

"Is that what the palisade is for? Makes sense, I guess."

“I can teach you how to properly use a rifle.”

“Ha! To shoot your big painted circles?! How about I teach you! Your targets aren’t even moving! Can you even hit a running pig. Even a woman could hit your target!”

“Fair point, Malosi. But do tell me if you change your mind, big guy.”

[Mareyland]

Outside Eko

The advance guard of the relief expedition reported hostile contact - they had been fired on by snipers from behind a small rise on the side of the road. One Marine was badly wounded, and two more had minor injuries. The commander of the advance guard, an energetic sergeant, had pushed his men into close contact and driven the attackers away, killing a few in the process. Doctor Adam Higgins was doing what he could for the wounded man, but he was likely hors de combat, consigned to a wagon - one fewer trained soldier to face whatever else the Siandoan fanatics were going to throw at them.

Captain James Walton walked among the bodies of the dead ambushers. All of them were young men, and each one was wearing a band of red cloth tied around their upper right arm. That seemed to be the entirety of their “uniform,” because the rest of their clothing was both varied and obviously civilian. Some of the men had apparently been wearing face paint, which had now smeared and mixed with sweat and blood. Around the bodies were their weapons, long-barreled muskets, each uniquely decorated. Doctor Higgins had mentioned such weapons - “senapang” had been the word he’d used - while waxing about the native culture. Walton bent down and picked up one of the weapons, finding it heavier than he had expected. It had a flintlock mechanism at the back, something no modern military had used in half a century. He poked his little finger into the muzzle and turned it, feeling the grooves of rifling on the inside of the barrel.

They could see Eko in the distance now, though much of the city was hidden behind its walls. Only the spires of the palace rose above the ramparts. The city was nestled into the bend of a river which flowed down from the mountains and into Alon Bay near Konom. Across the river from the city was the imposing height of Mount Sri, which was, according to the always-inquisitive Doctor Higgins, a giant but inactive volcano. At the base of the mountain was a large mass of people, with banners flying. This, Walton realized, was the army of fanatics that the ambassador had heard about, which had set this whole operation in motion.

From a hilltop vantage point, Walton and the other officers of the expedition surveyed the approaches through field glasses. He imagined that someone in that teeming mob was doing something similar. The gates of the city remained closed - no doubt those behind the walls were waiting to see who would win the inevitable confrontation before throwing in their lot with the victor. The numbers favored the fanatics. Even from a great distance, it was clear that the Lisan’s call to arms had been answered by thousands of people. But numbers weren’t everything - while he might have had the smaller force, they were all trained military men, and armed with more modern weapons.

“We’ll find good ground to fortify,” Walton told the other officers. “Let them come to us. The machine-guns and artillery will tear them up, and hopefully that will make them keep their distance.”

It was, Walton would freely admit, a simple and somewhat optimistic plan. But it was the best course of action he could envision, given his limited force. He didn’t need to take Eko or utterly rout the fanatics - just buy enough time and space to evacuate foreigners from the city. No one in the ad-hoc council of war objected. The expedition moved to a gently curving line of hills closer to Eko, which was judged to be the best available location that they could occupy. It was close to the city, but not close enough to be in range of any kind of artillery fire from the walls. The Marines and bluejackets did not have time to dig in thoroughly - Walton had the wagons arranged in a rough semi-circle as defensive cover, and the men filled in gaps between them with barrels, crates, and sacks taken from the supply carts. The Lisanite host might have passed them by and entered the city, but like an animal drawn to a lure it shifted its course towards a collision with the Mareylanders.

Walton ordered the gunners manning the two field pieces to keep their guns silent at first, hoping to keep one trump card preserved up his sleeve. He watched as the great mass of fanatics drew closer, resolving into more identifiable shapes as it got closer. It seemed to move more like a school of fish or a herd of animals than an army, with an undulating shape that ebbed and flowed as it moved through or around obstacles. As it grew closer, the Mareylanders could hear chanting and singing. The hymns were soon replaced with howling cries as the first groups of fanatics charged up the hillside towards them.

“Fire as soon as you can,” Walton ordered.

“Fire at will!” Lieutenant Neidermeyer shouted. Moments later, the chattering of the four machine guns and the bark of rifles cut through the other noise. The whole length of the Mareyland position erupted in gunfire, scything down dozens of charging Siandoans. Chanting and shouting were now mingled with cries of pain and surprise. Some of those who were hit fell and began to tumble down the hillside, tripping up their fellows as they collided with the feet of those behind them. The charging line wavered and then collapsed back down the hill, leaving behind the bodies of those dead or too wounded to stand.

Walton called out, “Artillery, prepare to fire!” The next attack would not be so reckless. He needed to break them up before they got close. He could already see fresh men - and maybe even some women among them - forming up in a more organized fashion at the base of the hill. Puffs of smoke indicated that some were firing up at them with their weapons. Soon Walton could hear the sound of bullets striking wood as the Siandoans’ fire hit wagon wheels and crates, or tore through cloth covers.

The second attack started with a singular, collective war cry from the fanatics. Then they began to move up the hill, in a series of untidy lines. Walton shouted to the gunners, “Fire!”

The booming crack of the two field guns drowned out, just for a moment, every other sound on the battlefield. They were firing shrapnel shells, packed full of bullets. When the shells got close to the charging fanatics, they appeared to burst, sending their lethal innards flying towards the enemy at high speeds. It was like someone had fired two giant birdshot shells into the Siandoans from above. The whole charge momentarily shuddered to a halt beneath the impact.

“Hah!” Walton looked for the source of the voice, and saw a Marine standing up and leaning forward over a crate, one fist raised in the air. “Take that you sandy sons-of-bitches!” Then a musket ball from a senapang hit the boasting young man in the face, just below his eye, and his lifeless body pitched backwards. As if in response, the Siandoans resumed their charge up the hill, and the machine guns and rifles of the Mareylanders began to sound once more. This group had more mettle than the first, or simply knew what would be coming, and did not stop at the first impact of the bullets. They continued forward, some firing as they ran. They made it almost all the way up the hillside before the fire became too much, and they retreated down to join their fellows. The side of the hill was now becoming carpeted in dead and dying Siandoans.

A third charge rushed up the hill. The field guns were in continuous action now, hurling shrapnel shells into the oncoming Siandoans. Not everyone was armed with a gun - in fact, most of those clambering over their dead and dying fellows were armed with swords and spears. It was a chilling display of fanaticism, but religious fervor offered no protection against artillery or machine-guns. Just like the first two assaults, this one was broken up before it could get within arm's reach of the Mareyland lines. After this, there was a lull in the fighting, as the fanatics seemed to pause and regroup. Walton made his way down the line, checking in with the other officers. The men were in high spirits, and they had plenty of ammunition. Besides the boasting Marine, six other men were dead - two Marines and four bluejackets - and there was an assortment of wounded, which Doctor Higgins was dealing with to the best of his abilities.

“I don’t hear the guns anymore - is it over?”

“They’re fanatics but they’re not fools,” Walton replied to the doctor’s question. “They’re still in front of us, preparing. But we have plenty of bullets left.”

“But not food and water for a siege,” Higgins reminded him. “And we could be trapped up here.”

Before Captain Walton could respond to the very salient point that Higgins had raised, he heard Lieutenant Neidermeyer shouting for his attention. “Sir, come look at this!”

Walton hurried over and looked where the Marine officer was indicating. A lone individual had stepped out in front of the massed ranks of fanatics. It was a woman, Walton realized - one of those priestesses, "sadias" or whatever they called themselves. She was dressed in flowing robes of orange fabric, with a cowl that was thrown back to expose her face. She was waving a piece of white cloth at the end of a stick - the almost universal signal for a parley.

“Mareylanders!" The woman called out towards the summit. "I wish to parley!”

“Approach!” Walton shouted back.

“Sir, are you sure about this?” Neidermeyer asked, incredulously. “It could be some kind of trick…”

Walton did not respond, instead focusing on watching the priestess ascend the hillside. It was slow going, as she picked her way through the many bodies littering the approach to the improvised defenses. When she had gotten within a few feet of the Mareyland position, Walton said, “That’s far enough. State your business.”

“I speak as a messenger of the Lisan,” the woman said. “She does not wish this bloodshed to continue.”

“Then your people should not have attacked us.”

“Your people should not have marched an army into our land,” the man retorted. “I am not here to trifle over what has transpired. I am here to offer a way to avoid the total destruction of your men.”

“If you look around you,” Walton offered. “You’ll find it’s your people who are being destroyed.”

“For now,” the messenger admitted. “But you are few in number. Your bullets will not last forever. And the Lisan has many, many men willing to die for her cause. But that would be a needless bloodletting. The Lisan commands us only to use violence when it is absolutely necessary.”

“Charming,” Walton spat out. “State your business, then.”

“The Lisan offers you this one chance to withdraw. Go back to Konom, and get on your ships, and leave this island. You will be permitted to depart without harm.”

“My orders are to evacuate foreign citizens from the capital,” Walton told the messenger. “I have a duty to follow those orders, to the utmost of my power.”

“Look around,” the messenger intoned. “Your situation holds no hope of success, if you stay on your current course. The Lisan is offering you a way to save the lives of your soldiers.”

“What about the lives of the people in the capital?” Walton shot back. “Their welfare is also my concern.”

“If those in your charge are permitted to leave the city with you, will you depart?”

Walton nodded. “That would be satisfactory.”

“Then you shall have until the evening prayers,” the messenger announced. “Until then, so long as your army remains where it is, the Lisan shall permit those who wish to join you. Then you must depart immediately.”

Walton considered the proposal. He had no idea when the “evening prayers” were supposed to happen - Doctor Higgins could probably tell him, but the physician was busy tending to the wounded. It was still morning, though the sun was getting nearer to its apex overhead. Six hours? Maybe a little more? It would have to be enough.

“How will the people in the city know of this agreement?” Walton asked.

“A messenger will be sent, when we have concluded here. The Lisan shall enter the city after the evening prayers are concluded. That will be the moment when you must depart.”

Captain Walton once again considered his options. The woman's assessment of the situation was aligned with his own. He could hold out for a while, but eventually his supplies would run out and they would be overrun by the fanatics without doing anything to help the foreigners he had come to rescue. This might be the only way to offer some avenue of relief.

“Very well,” he called back to the messenger. “Go tell the Lisan that I accept her terms.”

[Siando]

Before the Battle

“I wouldn’t bother. Any plot to murder to the two of us, or either of us individually I guess, is inconvenient and a waste of time better spent on more pressing matters. And it would upset the queen. They like their queen, Godhard. Why would they upset her?”

Captain Bachtiar had sent word that he wished to meet with members of the Royal Guard. It was obvious that this was not a general meeting - invitations were delivered in whispered conversation, in out-of-the-way places. Those who received such an invitation were warned to speak of it to no one else. Faisal and Usman did not know that the other had been invited to this meeting until they spotted each other in the room at the appointed hour.

“Do you know what’s going on here?” Usman asked.

“No,” Faisal replied. “But anything is better than standing around guarding the tailor.”

Usman chuckled. “So they still have you on that duty, eh? Noble Faisal, standing athwart the door, protecting our Queen’s favorite artists!”

Faisal rolled his eyes. “Better that than out there in the city, dealing with all the trouble. I heard there was a murder in one of the brothels last night.”

“Oh, it’s the downfall of the island,” Usman said in mocking gravity.

At the front of the room, Captain Bachtiar cleared his throat loudly, calling the room to order. The guardsmen fell silent and listened as he spoke.

“Men, as you know, we face a serious danger here in the city.” Some men nodded knowingly, but Faisal and Usman exchanged confused looks, as did a few others. They did? Bachtiar continued, “There are those within the walls of Eko who wish to see our great Queen made a slave to their greed. Foreign interlopers, looking to exploit us just as the Edumaeans did! And the danger is closer than you might believe.”

Faisal let out a quiet sigh. The captain had always been something of a zealot, which was why the equally zealous General Bagus favored him so greatly. Faisal was no apostate - he did the morning and evening prayers and he followed the commandments of the Saari as well as he could. Usman, on the other hand…

“Here he goes,” Usman muttered under his breath. “Another sermon.”

“There is danger within the walls of this very palace!” Bachtiar declared. “You know how our Queen dotes on her painter and tailor, even though they are outsiders. I have received troubling information, that these two foreigners may be part of an intricate plot to harm good Queen Vina!”

Faisal couldn’t believe it. Neither of the two Pruts seemed like they could harm anyone. Could they be part of a plot? The Queen did trust their counsel, and often allowed herself to be alone with them…could they really be putting on a show of harmlessness, in order to earn her trust and lower her guard?

“We are the guardians of our sovereign, and this palace, and this city,” Bachtiar was saying. “We have a duty to act when danger is known. That is why I have gathered you here - to take action! We must destroy these traitors, before they undermine our kingdom!”

There were nods and sounds of agreement from most of the men in the room. But Usman rose, disbelief and anger in his features. “What madness is this? Are you asking us to murder those who the Queen has placed under her direct protection?”

“She has been deceived!” Bachtiar thundered back. “She has given sanctuary to enemies masked as friends. Her great compassion has blinded her to the true nature of these foreigners. We know there is an army marching on this city from Konom - an army coming to enslave us! What words of poison wisdom are those two whispering in her ear?”

The mood of the other guardsmen was growing more set in its hostility. Men began to glare at Usman, who continued undeterred. “I will not be party to this treason, Bachtiar! I will inform the Queen herself of this vile plot.”

“You shall do no such thing. Seize him!”

Faisal watched, frozen in shock, as the other guardsmen leaped on Usman, who swung his fists in a valiant, doomed effort to fight free. He was soon beaten down, disappearing beneath the fists and boots of his comrades. Bachtiar approached, his sword drawn.

“If you wish to stand with the traitors,” he growled as Usman, who was being held in a kneeling position. “Then you will share their fate.” He plunged the blade into Usman’s heart. Faisal’s friend shuddered once, silently, and then his head fell limply forward. Bachtiar withdrew the blade, which was now streaked with crimson blood, and the body collapsed onto the floor.

“Throw this traitor in the river,” Bachtiar commanded a group of the guardsmen. “Gani, you will deal with the painter.” He turned to Faisal. “And you, Faisal, you will deal with the tailor. Your friendship with this fool,” he indicated the lifeless body of Usman, “Tarnishes your reputation, and brings your loyalty into question. The death of the tailor will wash away this stain on you. Do you understand?”

Faisal could only nod, his eyes still fixed on his dead friend.

[Siando]

After the Battle

It was General Bagus who brought news of the battle outside the city to Queen Vina. “Your great majesty,” he began, on bended knee. “Our worst fears have been realized. A foreign army has marched to this city. The soldiers fly the flag of Mareyland. I believe they would have stormed the city, if not for the intervention of the Lisan.”

“What do you mean, General?”

“She arrived at the same time, with the procession from Jalendu Temple. Seeing the Mareylanders advancing towards Eko, the Lisan placed her followers between them and the city. The Mareylanders attacked them, my Queen. There has been a bloody battle just beyond the walls of the city.”

“A battle?” Vina felt her heart speed up. “Who won?”

“It was a miracle, my Queen,” Bagus replied. “Though the foreigners had superior weapons, the faith and devotion of your people prevailed. The enemy has been stopped from approaching the city. My Queen, I beg you to give me leave to open the gates, so that she might enter the city.”

“Now?” Vina took a few confused steps towards the door. “Summon Budi, and Setiawan. I must consult with them, too.”

“Neither of them remains in the palace,” Bagus told her. “My men say that Budi has not been seen since last night. Setiawan seems to have disappeared during the fighting. My Queen, I fear that they may have joined with the Mareylanders.”

“Joined with the - why? What are they doing?”

“My Queen, I suspect that this battle is not the product of coincidence. You know how Budi has advocated for the foreigners. I believe that he has joined with them - perhaps to overthrow you, or simply to use their power to control you. As for Setiawan…he was always reluctant to reveal his motives or thinking. Perhaps now his true colors have been shown.”

“Budi and Setiawan cannot be traitors,” Vina insisted. “I need them -”

“You are Queen of Siando,” Bagus said. “You do not need anyone. Kyra has anointed your lineage to rule over us.” He became more animated as he went on. “I beg of you to cast off the blinders that Setiawan has tried to fix upon you! His counsel has always been to weaken you, make you dependent on him. Budi sought to manipulate you for the benefit of his foreign masters. You do not need them! The Lisan is here to uphold your rule, your majesty. I beg you, open the gates to her.”

Vina put one hand to her cheek, feeling as though the room was beginning to spin. Could it all really be true? Could she have been misled by those who she trusted? Yet Bagus remained. His devotion to her shone like a lighthouse on a stormy night. She swam towards it, desperate for something stable to cling to.

“Very well, General,” she said. “You have my permission to open the gates.”

The orders went out from the palace to the Royal Guards who manned the city’s gates, instructing them to open them in preparation for the entrance of the Lisan and her followers. This also allowed those who wished to flee the city to depart. Word of the deal struck between the Lisanite army and the Mareylanders soon spread through the city, and panic-stricken foreigners began to race for the promised safety of the Marines and bluejackets on the hills outside Eko. They were not the only ones fleeing - there were many Siandoans who knew that the coming of the Lisanites meant that their lives were in peril, and sought refuge from the fanatics. All of these would-be refugees faced torrents of abuse from Zenshians within the city, who were eager to chase out the “impure” nonbelievers and “corrupting” foreigners.

The city convulsed in this frantic movement of people for several hours, until the sun began to set - the time of the Zenshia evening prayers. A final hurried exodus took place before the Lisanites could finish their prayers and march into the city. When the ceremonies were concluded, great blasts of horns sounded from the army waiting outside the walls. The Lisan rode into Eko, a figure in white atop a white horse - some whispered that she looked just like Queen Indah had looked, riding into Konom at the end of the Great Rebellion which had destroyed the Edumaean oppressors. Behind her came her followers, energized with the adrenaline of the battle and the flush of victory.

Not everyone had succeeded in fleeing before the Lisanites entered the city. Some had been arrogant, or foolish, and believed they could carry on despite the circumstances. Others had been prevented from leaving, or had not realized that they should have left when they had the chance. Mobs of Lisanites roamed the streets of Eko, smashing into homes and businesses known or suspected to be owned by, operated by, or sympathetic to foreigners. A few merchants, too greedy or foolish to abandon their finely-furnished homes, were dragged out by the mobs. Lisanites within the city pointed their fellows towards places where foreigners might be hiding - including the inn where Erich Lottesson Eberwald and his retinue had taken up. The Prut plantation owner fought, but in the end no one man could withstand the tide and he, too, was dragged into one of the large open plazas used for public gatherings in the city.

Eberwald and the other unfortunate prisoners were bound to stout poles, set atop pyres. The Zenshia religion prescribed fire as the proper way to deliver up offerings to the Mother Goddess, Kyra. As the foreigners and foreign lapdogs howled in protest or wailed in misery, the pyres were lit and the men were soon consumed in screaming, flaming agony. The Lisan watched, impassionate, from a raised platform where messengers of the Queen usually read proclamations to gathered crowds.

From the palace, Queen Vina watched the pyres burn. She could hear the screams of the condemned and smell the putrid smoke. Her eyes were moist and red with tears. Such cruelty and suffering wounded her to the core. “I did not condone such horrors, General!”

“Those men burning wished to see you cast down from your rightful throne,” Bagus intoned. “They would have had this whole island enslaved, and subjected to the greedy whims of new conquerors. Your mother fought to free this island from such oppression, my Queen. With this, you carry on her legacy. She would be proud of you.”

Vina felt many emotions in that moment, but pride was not among them.