Blood in the Desert (WA Only)

[Cyretopolitania]

(OOC: This thread follows the events in these posts - viewtopic.php?f=4&t=506406 and viewtopic.php?f=4&t=513962&p=41904888#p41904888. It is open to the Western Atlantic.)

The Royal Palace
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

King Aksel IX sat on the edge of a goldplatted chair that dated from the 12th century in a room that had been part of a 1st century Roman governor’s domus.

Across from him sat his brother-in-law, Meddur Halliche, Duke of Gafsa and President of the Privy Council. To either side of the Duke sat Field Marshall Matthais Reis, the Minister of Defence, and Count Anthony Massi, the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

At either end of the ornate 17th century table that sat between the King and his ministers were Dr. Ibrahim Abrika, the Minister of Justice, and Dr. Idris Hassan, the Minister of Muslim Affairs. Both men were members of the Islamic Democratic Party and their community’s unofficial representatives to the King.

“This is bound to get out,” Duke Meddur said. “There is only so much we can do to an Excalbian journalist…”

Count Anthony wrung his hands. “We,” he said, “already had to inform their Consul of the arrest, and their Ambassador has asked to see me tomorrow. With the Consul. I expect them to lodge a formal protest.”

“We have to get ahead of this, Sire,” Duke Meddur said to the King.

The King nodded, then turned to Abrika. “Where do we stand on the legalities?”

“Under the terms of the 1712 Act,” the Minister of Justice said, “we are on solid ground. Both with the charges and the disposition before you, Sire, sitting as Judge of the Royal Court. The same is true of the… disposition of the Azenfar case.”

“And how will your people react?” The King looked at Dr. Abrika and then at Dr. Hassan.

Hassan spoke first. “Much will depend, Sire, on how it is presented. If the prevailing narrative becomes that senior officers of the Crown conspired to incite violence between the government and the Muslim community and that they were executed to conceal that fact, then, well…”

“It will not go over well,” the King said.

“It will not, Sire,” Hassan agreed.

“However,” Abrika spoke up, “if it is seen as the King acting forcefully to put down a traitorous cabal seeking to harm the Muslim community and if the timing of making it public was dictated by the need to remove all hostile foreign influence and to ensure that the entire cabal had been removed… then, well…”

“It might,” Hassan said, “be possible to use it to bring our community and the Crown even closer together, Sire.”

The King leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Are we still tracking Qubtian agents in our country?”

Abrika nodded. “Yes, Sire.”

“And do we still have the list of the more junior officers more.. distantly involved in the plot?”

“We do, Sire,” Field Marshal Reis said.

The King nodded. “Arrest all of them. Charge the Qubtian agents without diplomatic cover with espionage and treason under the Act. Expel those with cover. Charge the officers with whatever is deemed appropriate. Keep the arrests quiet for now.” He looked at Hassan and then at the Field Marshal. “And replace those officers with Muslim officers to the extent possible.”

Everyone at the table stood and bowed, then said almost as one, “So has it been said, so shall it be done.”

[Cyretopolitania]

(OOC: This follows the events of this post: viewtopic.php?f=4&t=454551&p=41907899#p41907899

The Royal Palace
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

Crown Prince John stood on the second floor portico of his apartment in the Royal Palace. His and Irene’s apartment. He sighed heavily, then turned at the sound of footsteps.

“Father,” he said with a slight bow as King Aksel IX stepped through the sitting room door.

“John,” his father said as he came to stand beside him. “I am sorry that Irene has left like this.”

The Crown Prince drew in a breath. “My fear is that she will not return.”

“I think she will; she is merely… stunned,” the King said.

“Stunned? She took rumours and innuendo as fact,” John said, his despair flaring into anger.

“To be fair to her,” the King said, laying a hand on John’s shoulder, “it can be hard to separate fact from rumour. Especially when the rumour contains the kernel of fact.”

“I can’t believe that she would actually believe that you, the King, my father, her father-in-law, would personally torture anyone, even Azenfar…”

The King nodded and said slowly, “I did order his… enhanced interrogation, even if I did not conduct it myself.”

John shook his head. “That is a great difference…”

“You did not listen to the tapes, my son. You do not need to bear the weight of giving the order.”

“But it had to be done. Right?” John looked at his father, his brow furrowed.

“At the time, I certainly believed it did.” The King looked away. “Azenfar did much damage to the Kingdom. He nearly succeeded in turning the instruments of my government against a portion of my own people.” He sighed. “Some would probably say that he did succeed, at least in part.”

The King began to pace. “I needed to know everyone involved. I needed to make sure the cancer was rooted out.” He paused. “I also needed to know what…” The King paused again. “No, not what he knew, but where he hid that knowledge.”

He turned to the Crown Prince. “That is why I ordered his offices and his home burned. Those secrets… they were the source of his power. And that is why I had to try him in secret and have him executed in secret.”

“It was in accordance with the law, Father.”

“An old law that had not been used since the last war. One I would have kept a relic of the past.” The King turned and resummed pacing. “In open court, he would have used those secrets…” He turned back to his son. “He even tried to smear Irene. He said she had a secret correspondence, through her servant Shayma, with rebellious Muslim elements…”

John’s eyes widened. “Surely not…”

The King gave a crooked smile. “Of course she did,” he said. “But she was doing it to try, in her own way, to expose what Azenfar was doing. She did not know the details, of course, but she intuited that something was wrong.”

John still looked upset and angry.

“You see,” the King said, “that is what Azenfar would have done. Used a secret, a kernel of truth, to spin a tale of betrayal and treason. In an open court, he would have had all of us at each other’s throats…”

John frowned. “Irene should have talked with you before she left.”

“Yes,” the King said, “but the past is a land that can never be reached again. We must live in the present and move forward from here.”

“What if she doesn’t come back?”

The King drew in a breath. “Then, we will miss her greatly and wish her the best in whatever life she choses to make for herself.”

[Cyretopolitania]

(OOC: Joint post with Brasland.)

Villa Ardelia, Constantinopolis Secundus
Empire of New Chalcedon

Princess Irene sat on a swing sofa on the terrace of her mother’s residence in New Chalcedon. She wore a gray summer dress, as if to show her state of mind, while her golden locks fell over her shoulders, framing her tanned face. Queen Ardelia was next to her, holding the young Prince George, who was sleeping on her lap, while the girls played in the gardens with the nannies.

“I wish I had more time to be here, Mama”, the Crown Princess sighed. “John’s grandmother is coming with only one message.”

“The call of duty”, said the Queen, smiling with a motherly expression as she stroked George’s head. “You must listen to what Safiya is coming to tell you. I like her.”

“You just like her because she got into a fight with Oma”, laughed Irene.

“Well, someone needed to tell your grandmother the truth for once”, Queen Ardelia complained, frowning.

As she said this, a servant appeared to announce Queen Safiya’s arrival. Irene looked at her mother as she stood up.

“The call of duty”, she said.

Queen Ardelia left, her grandson in her arms, signaling to the nannies to take the girls with her.

Safiya, the Dowager Queen of Cyretopolitania, nodded to the person who showed her in to see the Princess. “Thank you,” she said in heavily accented English before turning to granddaughter-in-law.

The elderly Queen wore her white hair pulled back into a tight bun. It contrasted sharply with her deeply tanned skin. She wore a simple white dress with a jeweled necklace and several bracelets. Irene curtseyed to Queen Safiya and then kissed her on both cheeks, as tradition dictated.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Irene, my dear,” Safiya said. “I was afraid that after the spat your grandmother and I had in Excalbia that you might not agree to this meeting.” She looked down and grimaced, as if struggling with her words. “I believe that we both said things to the other that we did not mean and I hope to be able to extend my apology to her in person someday.”

She stepped towards the younger woman. “But today, we need to talk about you. And John.”


“Thank you for coming, Yema”, said the princess. “I hope the trip was not too tiring for you.”

A servant brought beverages and fruits.

“Please, sit down”, Irene said.

She let Safiya sit first and then followed suit next to her.

“I know the family is… surprised that I delayed my return”, she said. “But John and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately on certain things. I needed to be with my family to think. But here you are, Yema… and I’m all ears.”

Safiya sat and took one of the fruitier-looking non-alcoholic drinks. She sipped it, then said, “I am glad you are in a mood to listen, my dear,” the older woman began.

“I must confess that I was prepared to speak to you rather sternly, but now that I am here,” she smiled. “I am reminded of why I love you so much, my dear. You are a very sweet girl.”

She sipped her drink. “I know the rumours that were swirling around the Palace just before you left.” She gave a wry smile. “Your grandmother made sure that I knew she had heard them as well. And I know that they were… troubling to you. And that this is the source of your… not seeing eye to eye with John.” She paused. “Am I right?”

Irene looked uneasy as Safiya spoke.

“Yes, that is the source of our disagreements”, she said.

“I would, first, counsel you, my dear, to not take every rumour as fact. I have discussed this with Aksel and… it is not quite as it has been relayed to you.”

She leaned forward. “That is not to say that Aksel did not do things that… were hard to do. And hard for you to know about. However, consider this: Cyretopolitania is not in the favoured position in which some countries, such as Excalbia or Brasland, find themselves. Isolated from enemies or at least enjoying the protection of favourable terrain.” She shook her head. “No, we are surrounded by enemies. And not only enemies but enemies from antiquity. Enemies that have invaded us in the past and may well wish to do so in the future. This has required us to show a… greater willingness to employ nearly any means to defend ourselves. And that is why things such as the State Secrets Act of 1712 exist. Regardless of what the rumours may have said, Aksel did nothing that is not consistent with that law, severe though it is.

“You know enough of Azenfar to know the kind of beast he was. And what it was he wanted to do. And what he allowed the Qubtians to do to further his own agenda. What you may not know is how deeply he had compromised almost every institution and the men and women who run them. Almost all except my dear Aksel himself. At the end, that wicked dwarf even tried to turn Aksel against you, claiming you had conspired with Muslim radicals through your handmaiden.”

Irene covered her mouth with her face, shocked. Safiya raised her hand. “I know it is not true, as does Aksel. He knows that is not the reason you passed messages through Shayma to her family. But it does show how far Azenfar was prepared to go, even as he faced trial in the Royal Court, to turn us against each other. That is why it is so important that we, the Royal Family, stand together.”

She reached for Irene’s hand. “Things are about to get much worse, my dear. There is no keeping this secret now. The people will learn about Azenfar. Not just how and why he faced his fate, but what he tried to do. It will cause some to doubt their King. It will cause others to call for further vengeance. Some will undoubtedly even call for war with Qubti. And Qubti may well use the confusion to strike us first. For all these reasons, the people must see that we stand together. And this will try John as nothing has and he will need you to stand with us.”

She sighed and gave Irene a gentle smile. “There is one thing I told Charlotte that I will tell you. You are a kind soul, my dear. A gentlewoman. And that has made you a wonderful mother and dear granddaughter. But you are destined to be Queen. Just as I was and just as Samia is now. That requires that you… have a tougher side. A fierceness that will get you through tough times like this and let you help John, when he is King, have the confidence and security to make the tough decisions those times will require.”

The Crown Princess did not reply immediately. The words were too many and too important to process. She had her own ideas of her role… and of her life. And she felt that they clashed with what Safiya was asking of her.

“I understand what you say, Yema”, she said, slowly. “I know what is expected of us, of me in particular. But I cannot in good conscience accept what Papa has done. Azenfar was not a good man, I know that very well, but he was a human being. We are Christians, Yema, we are supposed to follow certain guidelines in our lives. Papa ordered a man’s torture and then his execution, a terrible execution I have to add. I know our family has kept the throne for so long because they have done what they needed to when they had to, but that’s not how I try to live my life. I truly believe in Our Lord Jesus Christ and His message of love. That does not mean I am nice and soft all the time, but there are certain things that our family does that I will always struggle with. Don’t ask me to suffocate my conscience, Yema. I cannot do it.”

She looked away, to the harbour beyond the gardens. The ships passed left and right as the sun set in the horizon. Irene sighed deeply and cried in silence for several minutes. Then, she wiped her tears with a handkerchief and turned back to Safiya.

“That said”, the princess added. “When I married John, I made a vow for my entire life. I love him, Yema, and I will be there for him through thick and thin, but I’m afraid for the future. I don’t want him to risk his soul, his salvation. That’s what we came to do in this life, to find a way to Heaven. I know it might sound naive to you, but this is what I believe with all my heart.”

Feeling spiritually exhausted, Irene laid back on the sofa swing, looking again at the distant sea as darkness began to cover the harbour.

Safiya visibly softened. She sat in silence for a moment, then reached across for Irene's hand. “My dear,” she said, “I would not ask you to violate your conscience. I only ask that you… extend a bit of charity to Aksel. He faced an impossible situation and made the choice, under our laws - whether we like them or not - that he felt he had to make for the good of his people.”

She let out a long, slow sigh. “Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he even thinks he was wrong. But, we cannot let our enemies see us divided.

“All I ask is that you stand beside John. If you think his father was wrong, tell him as you told me. Tell Aksel how you feel. But do it in private. Do not let there be a public division.”

The Dowager paused again. “And tell John your fears. He is not his father. He is a different generation.” She gave a slight smile. “You have far more influence over him than you might realize.”

Irene returned a sad smile to Safiya and squeezed her hand.

“I will, Yema”, said the Crown Princess of Cyretopolitania. “I will.”

[Cyretopolitania]

The Royal Chancery
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

Duke Meddur Halliche, the President of the Privy Council, stood behind a small podium. Behind him were blue drapes and twin Cyretopolitanian flags. In front of him were the assembled members of the press.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” the Duke said, “today, His Pharaonic Majesty has asked that I brief you on the events surrounding the 2015 and 2018 States of Emergency and the 2020 reorganisation of the security services.”

Meddur drew in a breath, looked down at his notes then up at the press. “In 2020, His Majesty finally gained evidence that the violence that precipitated the states of emergency was staged by foreign agitators and aided and abetted my criminals within the government, including Count Izza Azenfar, the then-Director of Royal Intelligence, Field Marshall Macarius Mehenni, the then-Minister of Defence, and Colonel General Bishoy Chetrit…”

There was a general clamor among the press as they began to shout questions.

The President raised his hand. “Please, please,” he said, “let me finish.” He swallowed. “It is now known that infiltrators from the Qubtian intelligence services attempted to incite violence among Muslim citizens of the Kingdom, particularly in the southeastern provinces. However,” he held up a finger, “and I cannot stress this enough, they found no traction among our people save for a few hooligans already disposed to criminal activity.

“At the same time, a secret cabal, led by Count Azenfar, was looking for an excuse to target Muslim citizens for repression and to introduce authoritarianism to enhance their own power. Seeing that the actions of the Qubtian infiltrators were insufficient to provoke the general unrest they sought to justify what they wanted to do, they decided to manufacture further incidents, to attribute routine crimes to terrorism and, in general, promote an atmosphere of mistrust and anxiety.

“In 2015 and again in 2018, they used these manufactured incidents to push His Pharaonic Majesty to issue a sweeping declaration of martial law. However, in his wisdom, our King knew from the beginning that these men were, at a minimum, exaggerating the threat, and he resisted the cabal’s entreaties. With the entire then-serving Privy Council urging action of some kind, His Majesty issued the limited State of Emergency.”

The Duke sipped from a glass of water that had been placed on a shelf under the podium. “In 2020, the King finally received evidence that his suspicions were correct and that directly implicated Azenfar. His Majesty ordered the arrest of Azenfar under the 1377 Royal Act to Codify the Crime of Treason.” There were several gasps. “During his interrogation, Azenfar revealed the identities of his co-conspirators. He also revealed that for years he had been unlawfully spying on citizens of Cyretopolitania and using the information he gained for blackmail and extortion. Given his extensive knowledge of the personal information of both public figures and private individuals, the sensitive nature of Qubti’s involvement and the fact that tendrils of the conspiracy stretched far and wide, the decision was made to try Azenfar and his co-conspirators in the a secret session of the Royal Court, in accordance with the 1377 Act and the 1712 State Secrets Act. Azenfar, Chetrit and a few others were sentenced to death…” there was more chattering among the gathered journalists, “while others, such as Field Marshal Mehenni were given the opportunity to go into voluntary exile in return for their cooperation.

“In recent days, the last of the conspirators and of the Qubtian agents have been identified and arrested. This has prompted the King to order the disclosure of these events.” He paused and looked out. “I will take a few questions…”

Every hand in the room shot up.

[Qubti]

Ministry of Special Services
Iskandariya, Republic of Qubti

The Minister’s Office was actually comprised of two adjacent offices - the official office with the sixth floor view of the capital and the overstuffed leather chairs, and the actual office, which was a windowless cube with barebones furnishings and a relentless air conditioner. In that latter office, Bassel Gamal sat behind a simple desk, leaning forward on his elbows.

“How many did we lose?” The Minister asked, narrowing his eyes as he addressed his Director of Operations for Cyretopolitania.

“Our operations chief and all but two of his men have been arrested,” Jabir Magdy said, leaning back heavily into his chair, “and all our operatives working out of the Embassy have been expelled.”

Gamal frowned. “A disaster,” he said through clenched teeth. The other man nodded. “Intolerable,” the Minister added.

A heavy silence hung over the room.

“We have to retaliate,” Gamal said.

“The Cyretians withdrew most of the assets we had identified before they announced their arrests and expulsions,” Magdy replied.

Gamal drew in a breath. “Then, we must look for other avenues.” He paused. “Arrest an equal number of Cyretians. I do not care whether they are agents or businessmen or students or tourists. I want a reciprocal number in our cells here. And I want them charged with capital espionage.”

Magdy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

[Cyretopolitania]

The Campus of the University of Cyretopolitania
Cyretia, Lower City
Cyretopolitania

The streets surrounding the university were choked with a heated mix of students carrying signs and banners and commuters in cars honking their horns. In the midst of the two groups, police tried unsuccessfully to get the students off the street and to turn back the drivers. People were shouting and news crews from both domestic and international media were filming.

In the midst of the student throng there suddenly appeared an effigy of a man dressed in a pharaoh's headdress with his hands painted red - clearly meant to represent King Aksel IX. Around it were large signs alternately condemning the King for the secret trial and execution of Count Azenfar and his co-conspirators and for allowing them to impose the state of emergency that saw the arrest of thousands of Muslim Cyretopolitanians. Other signs demanded an independent investigation, greater democracy and even the King’s abdication.

When the first flames began to lick the sides of the effigy, several men burst from their cars and rushed the students, flailing about, trying to hit anyone they could. Then, a delivery truck surged forward and crashed into the burning figure, running over several students in the process. A policeman trying to separate the groups was hit by a paving stone thrown by a student, and suddenly stones began to pelt the cars, the men who had emerged from them, as well as the police.

After several minutes of chaos, there was a piercing noise something like an air raid siren and, suddenly, black uniformed soldiers in body armor appeared on the scene with truncheons, guns firing rubber bullets, tasers and other “non-lethal” weapons. They waded into the crowd and quickly began subduing everyone, student and commuter alike.

An amplified voice called out in Amazigh: “By Order of the Royal Government this demonstration is declared a riot under the Public Order Act of 1774. Everyone is under arrest. Submit or face the consequences.”

[Qubti]

Ministry of Foreign Affairs
Iskandariya, Qubti

Karim Nasr stood as he greeted his guest with a cool nod and perfunctory handshake. “Your Excellency,” he said in Arabic, pausing to allow the translator to his left to translate it needlessly to Tamazight, “it is a surprise to see you.”

“Thank you for receiving me, Your Excellency,” Duke Yedder Zemmour, the Cyretopolitanian Ambassador, replied in his language, allowing the translator to render it in Arabic.

The Foreign Minister gestured to a sofa and two chairs arranged around a table. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you,” the Ambassador said as he walked over and took a seat. After the Foreign Minister was seated, with his translator standing behind him to the left, the Ambassador continued. “I am here to seek the immediate release of the 17 Cyretopolitanians you have taken prisoner.”

Nasr frowned. “They are not ‘prisoners’ in the way you imply, Your Excellency. They are detained on suspicion of espionage. Much in the same way you have detained several Qubtians on such charges in your country.” He paused. “With one key difference: we have evidence to prove our charges, while your charges against my countrymen are clearly fabricated. Possibly in an effort to distract your citizens from the failures of your King.” He gestured at the newspaper on the table, which gave frontpage coverage to the student riots in Cyretia and their violent suppression by the Army.

Zemmour drew in a sharp breath. “Let us not play games, then, Your Excellency.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a stapled document and placed it on the table. “This document outlines the clear evidence we have that your country has repeatedly engaged in efforts to destabilize the Kingdom. It also contains evidence that those you arrested were nothing more than ordinary citizens.”

The Ambassador paused to see if the Minister would pick up the document, but he did not.

“My government demands…”

“Your government is in no position to demand, Your Excellency,” the Minister said. “And if you have nothing to say other than to issue demands, perhaps it would be best for you to return to your capital and seek new instructions.”

The Duke nodded, then stood. “Then, I shall, Your Excellency.” He bowed slightly. “Thank you for your… hospitality.” Then, he turned and walked out.

After the Cyretopolitanian had left, the Minister picked up the document and flipped through it. He gestured with his hand dismissing the translator. When he was alone, he muttered to himself, “I hope the President and Minister Gamal know what they are doing. But I fear this will not end well.”

[Jrawa]

Presidential Residence
Semien, Republic of Jrawa

“...and the Cyretians and Qubtians have both recalled their ambassadors,” Benjamin Lahcen, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, said, resting his hands on the table.

Shmuel Azria, the Minister of Defence, leaned forward. “And worse news: we have reports that both sides are redeploying troops to the border and mobilising reserves.”

“So,” President Edmond Haroche said, leaning back in his chair, “it seems they both want war…”

“I am afraid that is our conclusion,” Lahcen said.

“We should consider raising our readiness levels and mobilising our own reserves,” Azria said.

“Why would either of them involve us?” asked Nathan Cadosh, the Minister of Welfare.

“Why did we end up involved in every other war between Qubti and Cyretopolitania,” Attorney General Rachel Barouh said, waving her arms, “we have the enviable and dangerous fortune to be strategically poised between the two and the one port that provides access to both countries.”

“If one or the other decides they need to… occupy us,” Barouh continued, either to take advantage of our position or keep it from the other, is there anything we can do?”

Azria shook his head. “All our armed forces, including our reserves, would be little more than a speed bump to either the Royal Army or the People’s Army.”

President Haroche leaned forward. “We need… allies,” he said. He turned to Lahcen. “Benjamin, begin sounding out the foreign ambassadors to see how their countries would react to conflict between Qubti and Cyretopolitania and whether any of them would… stand up for our sovereignty, if it were threatened.”

The Foreign Minister nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The President turned to Azria. “And, Shmuel, we should go ahead and do what we can to make ourselves as big a speed bump as we can.”

“Of course,” the Defence Minister said.

[Cyretopolitania]

Parliament House
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

The Chamber of Parliament, as the Kingdom’s unicameral legislature was known, met in an ancient Roman basilica renovated in the 11th century to serve as a palace for the Tamnadt-Kusilian Dynasty and renovated again by the Valdrician Crusader King Philip I in 13th century. It became home to the nation’s legislature when it was created as the Royal Council in 1545 by King Philip III in an effort to consolidate his rule.

Many renovations later, the body still met in the building’s large central hall beneath vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows of saints and kings. At the moment, the body, consisting of 325 members, was gathered in heated debate.

“... these matters clearly demand a thorough and independent investigation, My Lord Speaker,” Badis Mazigh, an M.P. from the Christian Labour Party said as he mopped sweat from his forehead. “To do anything less is to neglect one of the primary responsibilities of any legislative body…”

“My Lord Speaker,” Udad Zouche, the parliamentary whip of the Crown Loyalists said as he rose to his feet. The Speaker nodded and Zouche continued, “My Lord, I would remind my honourable colleague that this body has no authority to investigate His Pharaonic Majesty…”

“I am not proposing that we investigate the King,” Mazigh said, “though perhaps it is time to reconsider that limitation…”

Shouts of “Treason,” “Traitor” and worse erupted from the majority side of the aisle. The Lord Speaker banged his gavel and shouted, “Order! Order!”

After several moments, the shouts stopped and the Lord Speaker turned towards Mazigh, “The honourable member is reminded to limit his remarks to matters under the purview of this body.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” he said with a slight bow. “As I was saying,” he continued, “I am proposing an investigation into the actions of the relevant ministries in handling, first, the Qubtian infiltration, second, the subversion of state institutions by the late Count Azenfar and, finally, in keeping these events from the Chamber of Parliament.”

More shouting erupted and the Lord Speaker again called for order. “There has been a motion from the floor,” he said, “is there a second?”

Several members of the Christian Labour, Labour Front and Liberal Parties stood, shouting out their agreement with the motion.

“Then we will proceed,” the Speaker began, before the Minister of Justice stood.

“The honourable Minister of Justice is recognized,” he said.

Dr. Ibrahim Abrika folded his hands behind his back. “The government calls for an immediate recess to consult with the Privy Council on this grave matter…”

“Granted,” the Speaker said, banging his gavel. “We are adjourned until tomorrow morning.”

The opposition and even some of the government backbenchers began to shout about the delay, but the ministers and the Speaker ignored them and exited the chamber.

[Cyretopolitania]

The Privy Council Cloakroom
Parliament House

While the Privy Council had its own facilities, including offices and meeting rooms, in an ancient building in the Royal Palace complex, the Cloakroom served an important function as an informal, private meeting area for the Council inside Parliament House.

The Cloakroom was a large study suitably furnished with a large number of overstuffed leather arm chairs, a few matching sofas and several antique tables. Dr. Ibrahim Abrika sat on the one of the sofas turned towards Count Anthony Massi, who sat on the opposite end, stroking his chin.

“This is very dangerous ground, Anthony,” Abrika said. The leader of the Islamic Democratic Party and Minister of Justice wrung his hands. “This is going very badly.”

Masi, the leader of the Crown Loyalists and Minister of Foreign Affairs, nodded. “It might have been better if the King had kept the whole matter quiet…”

Sir John Barbossa, the leader of the Chistian Democrats and Minister of Treasury, harrumphed loudly. “You underestimate,” he said, “the difficulty in keeping secrets these days, Anthony. The King was right to direct Duke Meddur to go public…”

“But only with part of it, Sir John,” Abrika said. “Only part of it. And that is what makes this situation… unstable.”

“I did not know anything…,” Barbossa began.

“There was no need for you to know,” Abrika said, eyes narrowing.

Barbossa shook his head. “Keeping secrets within the Council? This is bad business.”

Abrika pulled out a long, narrow cigarette out of a silver case he removed from his jacket’s inside pocket.

“You know they prohibited smoking here,” Barbossa said.

Abrika looked at the Minister of Treasury and lit his cigarette. “I will fine myself later,” he said.

Masi leaned forward. “So, what do we do?”

“We can only delay so long,” Barbossa said.

“We will inform the Duke and His Pharaonic Majesty,” Abrika said. “The next move is up to them.”

“But what can they do?”

“If he wishes, the King can dissolve Parliament altogether,” Abrika said.

“That would be a disaster,” Barbossa said with a sigh.

“Perhaps,” Abrika agreed. “But it is not for us to decide. Only to obey.”

[Excalbia]

Miller House
Citadel Excalbia, Excalbia

While some Imperial Chancellors had found it more convenient or preferable to work from offices in the official residence and even hold meetings there, Paul Akoak preferred to keep his job and his personal life separate. Doing that as Imperial Chancellor had proven to be extraordinarily difficult. So, he tried to work from his offices in the Imperial Chancery atop Citadel Mount as much as possible, rather than from what had become his family’s home.

However, Tuesdays were different. That was the day he had his weekly meetings with the Emperor at the Imperial Palace. Since the Palace was in the lower city, not far from Miller House, it had proven too convenient to simply do his own morning briefing and go through emails from the offices in Miller House. It also offered him the rare opportunity to linger over breakfast with his family.

This particular Tuesday, the family had enjoyed pancakes and sausage before the kids were shuffled off to school and he made his way to his office to prepare for the Emperor. The Tuesday meetings started with a one-on-one that segued into a meeting of the so-called inner cabinet, which included the Ministers of State, Defence and Justice along with the Chief of the General Staff and the Head of Imperial Intelligence. Then, he was expected to stay for a frankly excruciating meeting with the chief officers of the Imperial Household Agency - the Chamberlain, the Imperial Steward, the Exchequer and the Lord Sheriff.

The Imperial Palace
Citadel Excalbia
A Short Time Later...

Today’s one-on-one had been brief and somewhat perfunctory. The inner cabinet meeting had been equally anodyne, until near the end.

“What about this business in Cyretopolitania with King Agizul IX?” Emperor Joseph asked, leaning back in his ornate gold-trimmed early 19th century chair.

The Chancellor frowned slightly and turned to the Minister of State.

Grace Petersen leaned forward and placed her folded hand on the equally ornate table. “The government’s… revelation,” she said, “that it used old laws to arrest, try and… execute several former officials has definitely had reverberations. Domestically, there’s been student unrest in Cyretia, Thevestis, Hbira and Tacape, with students demanding greater transparency in government and… the democratization of political institutions. Unfortunately, their demonstrations have been met with violent opposition from loyalist groups, forcing police intervention.

“There’s also been a move in the Parliament to investigate the matter, but so far the government has resisted, claiming that it would amount to an investigation of the King, which is… not allowed under Cyretopolitania’s unwritten constitution.”

“Hmm,” Joseph said, rubbing his chin. “And the situation with Qubti?”

Petersen gave a subtle flick of her head. “As one would expect,” she said, “their arrest of Qubtian agents and expulsion of Qubtian intelligence officers undercover as diplomats has caused a strong reaction from the Qubtian regime. If Qubti sees the monarchy in Cyretopollitania as destabilized,” she frowned and shrugged, “it might try to take advantage…”

“I see,” the Emperor said. He turned to the Chancellor. “And, if things worsen domestically in Cyretopolitania and Qubti does engage in some sort of mischief, what would you recommend we do?”

The Chancellor now leaned back in his own chair and crossed his legs. “We do have some treaty commitments to Cyretopolitania. And it would certainly not be in our interest to see Qubti expand its influence. However, given the blackeye this business has given the Royal Government, it would not necessarily be in our interest to be seen as too supportive at this moment.” He paused and looked at the Director of Intelligence. “I’m also concerned that the proverbial ‘other shoe’ may drop…”

“Other shoe?” The Emperor asked.

Ilmars Brigaders steepled his fingers and drew in a breath. “Sir,” he said, “we have reason to believe that there may exist evidence implicating King Aksel IX personally in ordering,” he paused and sighed, “well, in ordering the torture of some of those arrested before their execution.”

“Damnit,” the Emperor said. “Damnit. Why the hell…”

“I can’t answer that, Sir,” Akoak said before Brigaders could answer. “But we believe there’s a good chance he did order the use of torture. And if it comes out…”

“If it comes out,” the Emperor said, “it further complicates any effort on our part to support Cytretopolitania, especially while we’re also trying to manage Knootoss’ insistence of blocking trade with Anahuac over human rights…”

The Chancellor nodded.

“Alright. Keep me informed.” The Emperor stood and straightened his jacket. Everyone else stood as he did. “Thank you all, I think that’s it for today.” He looked at the Chancellor and smiled. “Except for you, my Lord Chancellor. You get to stay to hear the Lord Sheriff complain, yet again, that he can’t properly protect the Crown Princess when she insists on speeding around the countryside in that damned sports car of hers. And another chorus of complaints about how she dresses and who spends time with from Lady Jenolyn and Sir Robert.”

The Chancellor nodded as the others filed out.

“As if I can make her do anything she doesn’t want to do,” the Emperor said as he shook his head.

[Ernestria]

House of Peers, Landtag of Ernestria in Bodendorf, The Thirty-Second Year of His Majesty’s Reign

The Prime Minister
The Duke of Starograd

My Lords, this morning I had meetings with ministerial colleagues and others. In addition to my duties in the House, I shall have further such meetings later today

The Count of Stojano

The Prime Minister will be aware as my Noble Lords as to the current situation in Cyretopolitania. Can I ask what discussions have taken place with the Cyretopolitanian Ambassador and whether the Prime Minister has conveyed the dismay of this House, and the other place, to the reports of the abhorrent torture and execution of those alleged to have conspired to induce communal violence in that country.

The Prime Minister

I would refer the Noble Lord to the Statement made in another place by my right honourable friend the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs on Thursday, last, in which His Majesty’s government deplored both the heinous treachery to which the Noble Lord alludes and the attempts by His Pharaonic Majesty’s Government to violently suppress and mask this perfidy. I believe I speak for this House when I remark that constitutional good order can only flourish when both the spirit and the letter of the Rule of Law is vigorously followed. I would also state that…I give way to the Noble Lord.

The Margrave of Berohurn

I would thank His Grace for giving way. The Government of Cyretopolitania has insisted that the suppression of the conspiracy was in compliance with the Royal Act to Codify the Crime of Treason 1377 and State Secrets Act 1712.

The Prime Minister

I thank the Noble Lord for his clarification, however His Majesty’s Government remains of the opinion that the utilisation of such dated legislation does not absolve the Government of Cyretopolitania of the crimes to which it has partially confessed. A law which grants such sweeping and unchallenged authority is, in my opinion, no law as we would properly conceive it. It is a figleaf for a gross violation of the rights of due process under which a civilised country is obliged to operate. I am aware, forgive me but I will finish this point before giving way again, I am aware of the State of Emergency, and the malign hand of the Republic of Qubti, but torture and murder in the defence of democracy sullies the very liberty it seeks to protect. To return to the question posed by the noble lord the Count of Stojano, the House will forgive me if I do not divulge the private discussions of members of His Majesty’s Government with ministers plenipotentiary of foreign courts, however I can assure my Noble Lords that His Majesty’s Government could not, and would not, countenance the resumption of usual diplomatic ties until such time that the perpetrators of these acts were brought to public knowledge. I would remind the House that what grows in the shadows and withers in the light of day does not belong on the vine. In as much as that applies to my administration, so it applies to His Pharaonic Majesty’s Government.

The Archbishop of Käppelsbach

I would thank His Grace for his robust comments on the importance of constitutional propriety. It remains a particular concern that an outbreak of armed hostilities between the Kingdom of Cyretopolitania and the Republic of Qubti would threaten the fragile harmony of the region. May I therefore enquire as to what steps His Grace has taken to forestall such a lamentable course of action?

The Prime Minister

The reverend Prelate is correct in hoping that the two governments might, as he will know better than anyone, beat their swords into ploughshares. However I should advise my Lords that there is little is His Majesty’s Government can do but promote the cause of dialogue. We are, and remain, mindful of the risks, and it is for this reason that the advice issued by the Foreign Office is against all but the most essential travel to either Kingdom of Cyretopolitania and the Republic of Qubti. I also spoke with His Excellency the Toshiagh of the Most Faithful Kingdom of Breucia of our intention, if required, to honour our treaty obligations to defend that place against incursion by either party.

The Baron of Vlissingdrecht

The commitment of KM400 million for a new hospital at Belleschdorf was one of the many brilliant things that the last Christian Democrat majority Government did, along with my good friend Herr Valentin Senefelder, the former Representative for Belleschdorf in another place. It would have been life-changing as well as lifesaving for so many in that area. Why is the Prime Minister cancelling that funding commitment, and spending billions of pounds on giving pay rises to coal miners instead?

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post between Knootoss and Excalbia))

Ambassador’s Majlis
Knootian Embassy
Semien, Republic of Jrawa

Abel Nahon was welcomed into Thijmen van Dijk’s Majlis. The large, arched windows with wooden lattice screens filtered the strong sunlight whilst bathing the space in a soft glow. The intricately tiled stone floor was covered with intricately woven rugs in warm, earthy tones, and a low, polished wooden table was flanked by plush leather armchairs. The walls were lined with bookcases, decorated with various curiosa, including coins, old maps, an antique sextant and a weathered chess set.

“Selamta t’ēna yisit’ihi, may health be upon you”, the Knootian ambassador said as he rose from the chair to greet him.

Nahon, one of three Vice Ministers of Foreign Affairs, smiled and said, “And unto you health.” He offered the Knootian ambassador his hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Excellency.”

“Of course, my friend,” van Dijk answered, gesturing towards the comfortable leather chairs. He opened up a decorative box made of camel bone, displaying his cigars. “Cigar?” he offered, already keen to take one for himself. They were Zilverblad Reserve from a remote plantation on one of the smaller Knootian Gulf Islands, providing a slow burn and velvety smoke wrapped in dark Maduro paper.

“Thank you,” Nahon said as he took his seat. “I find that all too many of your colleagues eschew the pleasures of a good cigar.” He took the offered cigar, trimmed the cap and lit it. After taking a puff, he leaned back. “Very nice.”

The Knootian ambassador settled in, glancing with bemused defiance at the ‘No Smoking’ sign as he lit up. A previous HR manager for the embassy had fixed the plaque next to the door, its bright plastic sheen standing out next to the natural materials of the curiosities he had collected.

“Rebecca, my PA, conveyed to me that your business was urgent. I hope it is nothing too serious?”

In van Dijk’s experience, urgency and seriousness were often two entirely separate things.

“Unfortunately,” Nahon said, “we fear it is both. You may have heard that our neighbours, Cyetopolitania and Qubit, have recalled their ambassadors and moved troops to their mutual border, which is uncomfortably close to us here.”

The vice minister took another puff of his cigar. “I suppose, my first question is how your government would react if, as we fear, Cyretopolitania and Qubti go to war with each other once again.”

“Negatively”, van Dijk answered dryly. “You know my countries’ politics regarding the containment of socialism. Though circumstances would change how people would respond.”

“And to what circumstances do you refer?” Nahon asked.

“Well, I imagine it depends in part on how it’ll look on KNN”, the Knootian ambassador suggested somewhat flippantly, before slowly blowing out a trail of smoke. “Qubti driving tanks across the border into Cyretopolitania whilst waving the scarlet banner which would provoke, you know, the most interventionist scenario from the Knootian point of view.” His fingers drew an invisible line so as to illustrate this offensive. “Contrast that with a situation in which Cyretopolitania would appear to be both militarily successful and morally in the wrong. In that case my government might be more inclined to … monitor the situation closely.”

The Knootian looked for an ashtray, finding one made of glazed brown ceramic that resembled an indigenous Anahuacuan monster with an open maw, and putting it between them.

“That is, assuming they will respect your nations’ sovereignty. As you know, Knootoss has been a traditional protector of Jewish peoples,” he continued, glancing towards a knick-knack from the protectorate of Ale-Yarok that recalled keeping somewhere in this room.

“And that,” Nahon said, “is our greatest concern. Unfortunately, the same enviable location and ports that have made us prosperous have also made us, all too often, a target for our neighbours. Whether they covet our location for their own purposes or want to deny the other side their use.”

He drew another puff and blew the smoke out in a ring. “And we appreciate your past assistance to other majority-Jewish nations.” He paused. “But to be frank, what we need at this time is a… deterrent. And, unfortunately, our armed forces do not present much of a deterrent to either side.”

“So what you need is an alliance?” van Dijk queried. “Or perhaps some sort of guarantee?” He looked thoughtful as he considered the suggestion, taking another drag from his cigar. After he blew out the smoke, he pontificated: “Respect for your territorial integrity would be a Knootian foreign policy aim for its own sake, but not one that I can see BuZa want to get kinetic over on its own. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, or that it shouldn’t happen, but Knootian foreign policy is traditionally the result of an alignment between the desires of the vicar and the desires of the merchant. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Ideological alignment plus material benefit equals action. So if you want to leverage Haag to credibly deter your neighbours, rather than spur assistance after the deed is done, there should be something in it for both.”

His hand began to circle to draw out ideas in the air: “As you may know, I’ve been something of an advocate for considering Jrawa as a favoured partner for Knootoss on the continent. A democratic system of government. Geographical, economic and cultural complementarity. Etcetera. It would be helpful if your government were to send signals to that effect. Assuming you are open to the idea.”

He changed tack as though something had just occurred to him, adding: “Though I suppose it may be tricky for both of us to keep playing the neutrality card if Qubti turns out to be militarily successful. I take it that being surrounded by Qubti, either de facto or de jure would also be an undesirable situation for your country? How would your government look at facilitating a more interventionist approach, if that were to happen?”

Nahon blew out another puff of smoke. “To address the first question,” he said, “we are realistic enough to know that we do not have much to offer in the way of supporting a formal alliance. However, we do have substantial port facilities and would welcome any ships of your navy that might wish to visit I can go so far as to say that if your navy were to decided it wanted a sustained presence in the Emerald Sea, we would be happy to offer a home away from home in our ports. Hopefully, the presence of Knootian ships in our ports and off the coast would offer more of a deterrence to Qubti than our own meagre forces.

“As for the unhappy possibility of a Qubtian military victory over Cyretopolitania,” the Vice Minister continued, “that would certainly be an outcome we would like to avoid. While we are weary of a well-armed monarchy on our western border, we consider it infinitely preferable to being surrounded by Qubti. So, if circumstances developed to present that as a real possibility, then, yes, we would look to, as you say, facilitate a more interventionist approach.”

“That could be the basis for an understanding”, Van Dijk mused. “Though I am interested, what other avenues are you exploring?”

Nahon smiled and took a puff of his cigar. “Ah, the famed Dutch directness,” he said. “To be honest, a colleague is calling on the Excalbians and we might reach out to the Braslanders. However, given Excalbia’s extensive ties to Cyretopolitania,” he leaned forward, “their ruling families are cousins afterall, we doubt we will get much in the way of a positive response from them. And who knows about Brasland.” He shrugged. “And Caldas, Pantocratoria and Snefaldia have no real interests in the area. There is Ernestria, but,” he shrugged again, “they are Ernestria.”

“It’s not as crass of an inquiry as one might think. We are supposed to be coordinating foreign policy with nearly all of them”, the Knootian replied, light-hearted. “And this is anyway not a situation where our interests necessarily conflict. More support for Jrawa makes effective deterrence easier. Though I agree that there is a lack of regional interest in the continent’s policies.” He hums. “If this works, Haag might try to get the Excalbians, Caldans and Pantocratorians on board with the deterrence project in at least a token fashion. As for Brasland - I struggle to remember when they last projected power. Hard power, that is. Their nobility is married into every aristocratic family in the region.”

Nahon chuckled. “Indeed,” he said. “As for taking a multilateral approach, if Knootoss could convince its allies to support deterrence, that would be even more than we had hoped for, Your Excellency.”

“I cannot make promises. But I share your hunch that they do not fundamentally have any interest in the issue, and no reason to oppose Haag taking the lead. Even Excalbia has been generous in regards to Knootian basing rights, recently. It becomes more complicated in the event of a hot war. But hopefully it won’t come to that. Neither regime would benefit, would it?”

“Not objectively, yet both regimes often act for subjective reasons,” Nahon said, settling back into his seat. “Both are rather personalistic governments, really. Everyone knows that the Privy Council is subservient to Aksel IX and their parliament is barely more than a rubber stamp for his decrees.” He waved his cigar. “But while Qubti affects the trappings of a democratic republic, President Sobhy has ruled for 11 years now and is without rival. Unfortunately, that kind of unchallenged power tends to breed a certain confusion of national and personal interests.

“At this moment, Aksel IX is facing almost unprecedented protests at home and more than the usual amount of international scepticism, so he may well be looking for… something to rally his people. Meanwhile, the mass expulsion of Qubtian agents from Cyretopolitania has been something of a personal embarrassment to Sobhy, so he may well be looking for ways to demonstrate that he is still as tough and in control as he was when he rose to power. All-in-all a dangerous mix.”

“I would expect skirmishes, symbolic acts”, van Dijk agreed. “But a full-scale conflict that spills into your Republic would be a massive escalation. I can imagine the Cyretopolitanians acting from a position of … regime weakness, if you will. With the protests and the potential for scandal. But I was under the impression that the Qubti regime was reasonably secure. Why would he respond so strongly to the expulsion of these agents? It hardly seems like a casus belli.”

“That is a good question,” Nahon said. “We believe that the Qubtian regime’s apparent strength is an illusion built on its perceived military power and, to be frank, its ability to intimidate critics at home and abroad. Sobhy has no political rival and commands the military; however, his regime has, in recent decades, cultivated the Islamist movement as another source of domestic support, possibly as a result of the abject failure of its promises to deliver the so-called benefits of socialism. To maintain that support, we believe they need to show - or at least proclaim domestically - progress in ‘liberating’ the Muslims of the infidel Christians in Cyretopolitania and the infidel pagans of Breucia.” He paused and puffed his cigar. “So, having their plans in Cyretopolitania revealed and uprooted is both a political embarrassment to Sobhy and a potential loss of support among the Islamists. And should the Islamists turn inward and consider the corruption, both political and moral, or the ruling party, it could mean civil war.”

“That is worrying”, the Knootian ambassador said. “And entirely in keeping with the historical forces that have been playing on these two countries.” He tapped some ashes from his cigar. “I will do what I can on my end to secure a reasonable deterrence. Can you take my suggestions back to your government?”

“I appreciate that,” Nahon said. “May I return to something you said earlier about sending signals that we are open to being a favoured partner. What sort of signals are you suggesting?”

Thijmen van Dijk gave the matter some thought, puffing on his cigar. “Usually I’d suggest laying the groundworks first. Jrawa should anyway strive to negotiate a closer trade relationship with the Nivelet block to replace the old bilaterals. Maybe a cultural exhibit. But if this thing is threatening to go hot soon, we’ll need something that’s both immediate and visible. A Presidential visit to Knootoss, perhaps. Perhaps followed up by a naval exercise. And I wouldn’t dream of steering your military procurement processes in any particular direction, but…” he trailed. “There are benefits to having shared material. If nothing else, it would be a great excuse to stage an exercise on land.”

Nahon smiled. “All of that sounds reasonable and quite achievable,” he said. “I shall recommend to the Minister that we begin planning a working State visit for President Haroche right away, and I will relay to my colleagues in the Ministry of Defence your ideas on military exercises and procurements. In the current situation, I do believe that we are looking at some new procurements, so the… timing of this should work out quite well, Your Excellency.”

“Please. We’re in private. Call me Thijmen if you like,” the Ambassador insisted. “And there’s a bottle I’ve been looking to share with someone who might have some thoughts about these recent archeological digs…”

[Cyretopolitania]

Parliament House
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

“Order! Order!” The Speaker demanded as he banged his gavel. “The Chamber of Parliament will come to order!”

The stained glass windows beneath the vaulted ceilings seemed to reverberate with the shouts of the members of parliament and fists banging on desks. The Speaker shouted again, adding to the general noise.

“Order! Order!” He screamed as he rose from his seat. “Or I shall clear the Chamber!”

Finally, after a few more attempts, the shouts died down to a murmur and people returned to their seats.

With a grunt of satisfaction, the Speaker took his seat and said, “There has been a proper motion and second for a vote of no-confidence in the Privy Council. All those in favour…”

Most of the opposition… and a surprising number of the majority stood, shouting, “Aye!”

“And opposed…,” the Speaker said.

The remainder of the majority stood and shouted, “Nay!”

The Speaker looked to the clerks, who passed him a note. He opened it and nodded. Then, he looked over the Chamber. “The votes in favour are 149. Opposed 166. Ten not voting.” He paused. “The motion fails.”

* * *

The Privy Council Cloakroom
Parliament House

“That was too damn close,” Count Anthony Massi, the Foreign Minister and leader of Crown Loyalists said as he stormed into the large study and began pacing.

“I cannot fathom that so many of our own backbenchers joined the opposition,” Dr. Ibrahim Abrika, the Minister of Justice and leader of the Islamic Democrats said, as he eased into a chair and fumbled with his cigarette case.

“And I hope you noticed, Ibrahim, that the majority of your party deserted you and voted with the opposition,” Firhun Massi, the Minister of Transportation and Count Anthony’s cousin, said in a cold, accusatory tone.

“They were not alone,” Abrika snapped. “There were even more Christian Democrats voting against us,” he cast a glance at Sir John Barbossa, the leader of the Chistian Democrats and Minister of Treasury, “even if they were not a majority of the party.” He turned back to Massi. “And even a few of your Crown Loyalists…”

“Enough,” Count Anthony said, finally coming to a stop. “Blaming each other will not accomplish anything.”

Abrika nodded. “What should we do? I doubt the opposition will give up. They came too close to abandon the effort.”

“They can smell the possibility of winning an election, if they can force one now,” Massi said.

“I doubt we can stop our support from continuing to erode,” Sir John said, shaking his head. “There were more student protests yesterday…”

“We follow through with the threat of closing the universities,” Abrika said.

Count Anthony looked around. “You notice that our Minister of Education and Culture is not here?”

The others turned and looked around the room and Dr. Dorothea Zamra Tanzir was definitely not in the Cloakroom.

“I saw here as we were leaving the Chamber,” Sir Benjamin said.

“Another defector?” Massi asked.

Sir Benjamin shrugged. “She was very strongly opposed to the notion of closing the universities…”

“This is unacceptable,” Massi said.

“Saying so accomplishes nothing,” Abrika said. “We need to be prepared…”

“If they persuade a majority to vote no confidence, what can we do?” Sir Benjamin asked.

“The King can suspend Parliament. Rule by decree or through the Privy Council,” Abrika said.

“That would be impossible…,” Sir Benjamin said.

“No,” Abrika said, “it is completely in keeping with the constitution.”

Count Anthony shook his head. “Considering that this whole uproar is over the King acting unilaterally under ancient laws, I doubt Duke Meddur or the King will want to explore this option.”

Massi shrugged. “But it might become necessary.”

The Count gave his cousin a sharp look.

[Qubti]

Ministry of Special Services
Iskandariya, Qubti

“Will this not endanger our planned operations in Breucia?” Assim Salah asked as he leaned forward, waving his pungent cigarette about for emphasis.

Brigadier Saadah Kamel, officially the Ministry of Defence’s liaison to the Ministry of Special Service who was in reality much more, nodded. “Breucia is ready for the taking. Cyretopolitania, however, has proven to be stubbornly resilient. If we sacrifice this opportunity to the south for a… theoretically opportunity to topple the Cyretian King, we may walk away with nothing.”

“With all due respect, General,” Major Omar Abdo, who was standing in front of the projection screen, said, “our plans in Breucia are at a very advanced stage and are pending only their activation by our Breucian collaborators. And they will be supported by our Anahuacan friends. We need not divert any resources from that effort to this one.

“Also, I believe we can all agree that Cyretopolitania has always been our greatest threat and that a chance to deal it a blow, perhaps a fatal one, is more than worth the risk.”

Silence hung over the room for a minute, then a figure at the end of the table leaned forward out of the darkness. He took a cigarette out from between his lips and said, “We shall proceed with this plan for Cyretopolitania.”

Those around the table nodded and said, “Yes, Minister.”

Bassel Gamal snuffed out his cigarette and stood. Everyone else rose to their feet and bowed slightly as he walked out the door.

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post with Jrawa))

Haag-Omsterdam International Airport (HOA)
Heemburg, Free Republic of Knootos

Unlike the Excalbian Emperor, the Caldan Queen or even the Confederal President, the President of the Republic of Jrawa did not have a fleet of private aircraft at his disposal. However, the lack of a shiny private supersonic jet did not mean that Edmond Haroche travelled like an ordinary citizen on a routine commercial flight.

Instead, a small but fairly new and well-maintained passenger jet chartered from Emerald Air - the Republic’s main international carrier - had carried the President, his foreign policy advisor, Foreign Minister Benjamin Lahcen, a military advisor and Judi Battash, the Republic’s Ambassador to the Free Republic.

The Knootian clouds above hung low and oppressive, a solid sheet of grey that seemed determined to press the world into submission. The air, thick with a damp, lingering chill, stood in stark contrast to the warmth of Jrawa. The bite of the breeze that swept across the exposed runway stirred faint whorls of grit and moisture. The subtle tang of jet fuel lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic bitterness of urban emissions and the remnants of industry that the breeze couldn’t quite disperse.

The military band played the national anthems expertly, but the musicians’ grey-green dress uniforms welcoming ceremony seemed subdued against the dreary backdrop, and even the vibrant flags and Grand Pensionary Maurits Viljoen’s purple suit struggled to break through the monotony.

After a formal welcome at the airport, the motorcade made its way to the Grand Synagogue of Omsterdam, whose design was based on the plans for King Solomon's temple. The President and visitors were seated in the front row seats, with visitors, including Knootian politicians and members of the expatriate community, cramming on the packed wooden benches that sat below a high rectangular ceiling. These guests included Benjamin de Leeuw, the recently defeated Conservative candidate for Prime Minister, in addition to the non-Jewish foreign minister, Hendrik de Lange, and Prime Minister Charlotte van Jonkervelde, as well as Henda Hartendief, the “First Girlfriend”.

The welcoming words were again offered by Grand Pensionary Maurits Viljoen, wearing a matching purple kippah. His hands moved with animated energy as he stepped forward, standing beside a waist-high pillar with an object covered by a silken sheet. “My friends, esteemed guests, and, of course, President Haroche,” he began, his tone rich with theatrical gravitas, “Visiting this beautiful Temple, I am reminded of an adventure from my younger years. One that required a good dose of chutzpah on my part.”

Viljoen’s grin widened: “You see, in my younger days, I found myself in Semien, drawn by whispers of a secret artefact found only in ancient texts translated by the earliest Knootian Gnostians. This reliquary, etched with ancient Hebrew and Amharic inscriptions, holding the wisdom of kings, was said by these ancient texts to have been brought to Jrawa by Menelik himself. Naturally, I couldn’t resist.”

“But when I arrived in Semien, I discovered that the reliquary had been stolen, taken by a group of smugglers intent on selling it in the Qubtian black markets. My local contact, a merchant known only as ‘The Fox,’ told me it was hopeless. He shook his head and said, " Viljoen adopted a gravelly, heavily accented voice, “‘Maurits, you’re a fool! These men will cut your throat for a brass coin, and you want to take their gold?!’”

A few in the audience laughed. Others groaned. Yet others remained deathly silent.

President Haroche turned to his foreign policy advisor and Ambassador Battash and whispered, “Is he mocking us or is he serious?”

The Ambassador leaned over the advisor and whispered, “I am afraid he is very serious, Mr. President.”

“Naturally, I ignored his advice. Instead, I bribed him to help me track down the smugglers. And that’s how I found myself in the company of a guide named Hamza.” Viljoen clasped his hands, his voice shifting into a rich, accented cadence: “‘You are a crazy Knootian,’ Hamza said to me. ‘But if you die, at least you will die in the desert, where all men are equal.’”

Viljoen raised a hand for emphasis. “We caught up to the smugglers’ caravan just as they were making camp. I waited until nightfall, when the camp was silent. Crawling through the sand, I reached the smugglers’ tent. My fingers had just closed around the reliquary when a voice behind me growled”, he did the voice again: “‘Mahu! What do you think you’re doing?’”

Viljoen straightened, his voice booming for effect. “I spun around, clutching the reliquary, and stammered the first thing that came to mind: “‘I have been sent by the rabbis to retrieve this holy object!’” He paused for effect: “The smugglers hesitated long enough for Hamza to create a diversion, letting a pack of camels loose to rampage through the camp. In the chaos, I slipped away, the reliquary in hand.”

He stepped back, spreading his arms dramatically. “The next morning, as we rode back to Semien, Hamza turned to me and said,” again, Viljoen’s voice shifted: “‘You are either the wisest fool I have ever met, or the most foolish wise man. Either way, the desert will remember you.’”

He turned towards the pillar, removing the silken sheet from the pillar to reveal what looked like a golden-hued jewellery box with richly inlaid jewels - or perhaps glass coloured to resemble jewels.

“The whole story can be read in the latest part of my autobiography, Viljoen Dares Again, which will be available in bookstores in a few months. But first, I would like to return this artefact to the President of Jrawa, to whose proud nation this artefact now rightly belongs. Please, Mr. President, come join me.” He held out his arms, as though ready to hug the Jrawan head of State.

Haroche shot his Foreign Minister a confused look, but the Minister simply nodded. With a slight frown directed at Lahcen, the President stood, smiled and walked to the front of the synagogue.

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Haroche said before opening his arms to accept the hug Viljoen seemed intent on bestowing. As quickly as he deemed acceptable, he pulled back from the hug. “This is… um… a true honour. Thank you again. And thank you for your warm and gracious greeting.”

Having embraced the President of Jrawa, Viljoen reached for his hand with the intention of raising it up together, as though they had won some great prize. A few cameras from attending journalists flashed as the moment was captured. Viljoen then gestured towards the centre stage, so that Haroche might say a few more words to the assembled crowd.

After allowing Viljoen to lift his hand with his, the President smiled, nodded and walked to the centre of the stage. “Thank you, Grand Pensionary Viljoen,” President Haroche said, with a nod towards his host. Then, he looked over the crowd. “Prime Minister van Jonkervelde. Your Excellencies. Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for this warm and most pleasant welcome.

“It is truly an honour to be received in such a lavish manner in Knootoss, one of the great powers of the world, and one I do not take for granted.

“In the past, relations between Jrawa and Knootoss have been polite and cordial, but not especially close. I hope that this trip will change that. We have too much in common - a commitment to democratic and republican principles, economies built on free enterprise and trade, and a commitment to fundamental universal rights - not to be friends and allies. My hope today is that this is just the beginning of a much closer and long-enduring friendship between our nations, and our peoples.

“Thank you again very much.”

After concluding his remarks, the President turned and began to return to his seat, while the audience applauded. Jonkervelde was captured on television clapping whilst giving her Jrawan counterpart a sympathetic look.

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post with Jrawa))

Prime Minister’s Office
Haag, Knootoss

About an hour after the gathering in the Temple, Charlotte van Jonkervelde and the delegation from Jrawa arrived in the Prime Ministers’ octagonal office. A pair of couches were surrounded by a set of double doors, an antique desk, a leather-bound copy of the Constitution, a 16th century painting of the first of the Dukes of Chamaven to convert to Kommerdijker Calvinism, and a framed photograph of the larger Jonkervelde family.

Having only just managed to ditch the escorting Grand Pensionary, Charlotte van Jonkervelde let out an audible sigh as she sat down on the couch, briefly rubbing her temples before her look of professionalism returned.

The table between the coaches was set with a kosher version of the standard Knootian government lunch: plain white bread sandwiches with plastic cups of strawberry jelly jam, and steaming pots of strong, black coffee. Anticipating that this would not be satisfactory to their guests, arrangements had been discussed with the embassy in advance about more palatable alternatives, so there was also a plate of fresh fruit and a small bowl of kosher non-dairy creamer.

The Knootian foreign minister, Hendrik de Lange, had managed not to show any sign of irritation throughout the days’ events. His expression had been a mask of studied neutrality, which he still wore as he sat down next to his Prime Minister. “I know we have said so in public, but again, thank you for coming to visit us. I hope that we can have a productive exchange.”

“I am sure that we will, Your Excellency,” President Haroche said as he settled into his seat.

“And, once again, thank you for the warm welcome,” Foreign Minister Benjamin Lahcen said. “We are looking forward to… having a productive exchange,” he added with a smile.

“Yes,” Haroche said, leaning back and visibly relaxing, “I am very grateful for you receiving us here, Prime Minister. I hope we can build a strong and enduring partnership.”

“I do apologise for the … unconventional reception”, Charlotte van Jonkervelde said after a moments’ hesitation. “Head-of-State welcomes can be a bit theatrical. But we’re here now.”

“And ready to do business”, foreign minister Hendrik de Lange agreed.

“Thijmen - our ambassador - mentioned the conversation’s he’s had”, Charlotte van Jonkervelde said. She’d been the foreign minister under Taelman, and a diplomat before that, representing Knootoss at the IFC and IFTZ. As such, she was on a first name basis with many of Knootoss’ other diplomats, including the representative to Jrawa. “And I believe those conversations can be a good basis for an agreement.” She nodded to de Lange.

“We can offer a statement intended to provide deterrence short of a binding commitment to intervene”, de Lange said. “Backed up by a naval visit in the short term and an amphibious landing exercise, so we’ll have some boots on the ground as well. We would also expect Jrawa to invest in her own security, and to consider adopting military standards that are compatible with our own.” He offered a meaningful look.

Haroche looked at his Foreign Minister and then at the military attache. Both nodded and he turned back to the Knootians. “A statement would be most welcomed, Mr. de Lange, as would the naval and amphibious landing exercises.” He paused. “As for investing in our own security, we are looking to… enhance our capabilities. We are looking to retire our existing destroyers,” he gave a wry smile, “all three of them, and some of our smaller craft to purchase something… more modern. We would also like to buy a few modern aircraft and vehicles for our army.”

He folded his hands. “And, naturally, we would like that equipment to be compatible with your own.”

“That sounds to me like a sound basis for an arrangement”, De Lange answered. “Are there particulars you would like to see in our joint statement?”

Haroche turned to his Foreign Minister. Lahcen stroked his chin and said, “Certainly something about respecting the borders and territorial integrity of Jrawa would be welcomed.” He paused. “Perhaps that could be noted in the context of welcoming a closer bilateral relationship with Jrawa, a fellow secular republic and democracy, and announcing the ship visit and joint exercises.”

The President nodded. “And from our end we could announce our new military procurements and note the requirement that those procurements be compatible with Knootian-led Western Atlantic standards. If that sounds acceptable to you?”

“More than acceptable”, de Lange agreed. “Don’t you think?”

“It is”, Charlotte van Jonkervelde agreed. “Though I would suggest that, even if this may help abate the immediate security concerns, it would still be helpful if your Republic defined its relationship with the newly expanded trade bloc more clearly. I don’t want to suggest linkage with the security issue, but now that we are talking at this level, we have an opportunity to initiate a closer trading relationship. Jrawa was mentioned in our coalition accord in anticipation of this visit, so we have a legislative majority behind any initiatives in that direction.”

“We would be quite receptive to a trade agreement - either a bilateral agreement with Knootoss or a multilateral agreement with the WACA, as I believe it is called,” Lahcen said.

“And I suspect, at this particular moment, it would pass Parliament quite easily,” Haroche said with a smile.

“There’s only so much we can do bilaterally”, de Lange said ruefully. “Setting up networking arrangements and trade missions would be helpful. But on a strategic level, we consider the next four years to be about expanding and deepening the framework we’ve laid down during Charlotte’s first term, in Nivelet.” He glanced towards his Prime Minister.

“You could join the basket of countries we’re now entering bilateral talks with. The Kingdom of Brasland and the Abt Republic. You are all democratic, friendly, non-Nivelet countries in the region, and parallelising those negotiations into a single track could make things go more smoothly”, Charlotte van Jonkervelde suggested. “We need not necessarily arrive at the same outcomes for each country, but we would like to open up the trade block more. For example, through regulatory alignment.”

“That sounds agreeable,” Haroche said.

“Good”, de Lange agreed. “I’ll have something drawn up and sent to you before dinner. I’ll be having the roulade myself. The Grand Pensionary’s chef is pretty good.”

“I’ve picked the parsnips”, van Jonkervelde chimed in a bit sourly, having perhaps preferred the roulade but for the amount of unwelcome public scrutiny her weight was getting.

“Excellent,” Haroche said, starting to rise from his seat. “Hmm, I believe that Rachel is having the parsnips and that I selected the roulade.” He looked at his advisor, who nodded. Satisfied, the President turned back to the Knootians. “Thank you. This was very productive. I shall see you this evening.”

[Cyretopolitania]

The Map Room, the Royal Palace
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

The Map Room, housed in one of early medieval additions to the Roman-built Palace, was both old and state-of-the-art. The walls and the furnishings were all museum-quality original pieces, some of which had been in the room for centuries. However, the walls, ceiling and floor hid steel cladding and other technology that made the room secure for sensitive meetings.

At the head of a large table with an inlaid map of northern Kemetia sat King Aksel IX. Opposite him sat the Duke of Gafsa, Meddur Halliche, the President of the Privy Council. Around the table were Foreign Minister Count Anthony Massi, Defence Minister Field Marshal Matthais Reis, Armed Forces Commander Colonel General Antony Wahrouch, and Air Force Commander Air Marshal Samuel Tabaamrat.

“Are you sure this is reliable?” Duke Halliche asked.

“We are,” Field Marshal Reis said with a curt nod. “Not only was it confirmed in interrogations…”

“Interrogations conducted to international standards,” Count Massi added with a quick glance at both ends of the table.

“Yes,” the Field Marshal continued. “Proper, international-standard, comfortable interrogations.” He paused. “The information has also been confirmed in electronic intercepts and satellite reconnaissance.”

The Duke looked skeptically at the photos in front of him. “It looks like an ordinary Qubtian village to me…”

“Yes, as they wish it to be seen,” Reis replied, “but no ordinary villagers have ever been spotted. Just transport trucks and men. And not skinny, desert-dwelling men, but well-fed men. Men who look like soldiers, if not special operations men.”

The Duke rubbed his chin. “And you are sure we can strike it safely from our airspace and with deniability?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Air Marshal Tabaamrat replied. “With the Excalbian drones and the retrofitted Upper Virginian missiles, we can enter Qubitan air space without radar detection and without exposing any of our pilots. We can hit the weapons depot and command and control center in this phony village, burn them to the ground, and no one will be able to prove it was done by an outside party, much less by us.”

The Duke looked at his brother-in-law, the King. “Sire?”

The King tilted his head back and rubbed his eyes. “Qubitan treachery has already cost us far too much. If we can cripple their efforts at incitement in this way, we should proceed.”

The men around the table stood and bowed. “So has it been said, so shall it be done.”

* * *

Thirty-two hours later, several large dark shapes streaked across the desert of western Qubti. Just a few miles across the bolder, the nearly silent shadows unleashed a barrage of missiles and turned back from whence they came.

A hundred kilometers away, the missiles slammed into several buildings in the tiny village of Shiribin. With no fire brigade and few residents, apart from the Ministry of Special Services troops in the buildings struck, most of the village burned to the ground within hours.

Despite the losses being almost entirely government personnel, save for a few traders used to illicitly transport weapons, drugs and money into Cyretopolitania, the next day the Qubtian government decried the loss of hundreds and innocent civilian lives.

[Qubti]

Ministry of Special Services
Iskandariya, Qubti

“This is unacceptable!” Minister Bassel Gamal shouted as he strode from his private elevator to his office on the top floor of the Ministry. “We know they did it!”

“Know and demonstrate to the world at large are, unfortunately, two different things, Your Excellency,” Assim Salah said, running to keep up with the Minister.

“Like I give a **** about that, Assim,” Gamal said.

“Sir…”

“I understand the limits we face,” the Minister came to a stop. “What assets do we have in Cyretopolitania that we can still access?”

“There are still some caches of arms and some… volunteers that we can reach via encrypted messaging.”

The Minister nodded. “Very well. I want a plan for retaliation on my desk before lunch, Assim using these assets. And I don’t care if we have to burn them in the process. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Assim bowed as the Minister stormed off and he turned towards his own office.

The Private Residence of Field Marshal Field Marshal Matthais Reis, Minister of Defence
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania
Ten Days Later

Field Marshal Reis’ personal residence was a large two-story house on a green compound surrounded by a high wall and razor wire. Early, as was his custom, Reis walked out of his house and into the covered carport where his official car waited for him. A soldier smartly saluted and opened the door for the Minister. As the Minister was stepping into the car, several black-clad men rushed in through the open driveway entrance.

The soldier immediately drew his sidearm, but before he could fire, one the men gunned him down. Reis, instead of immediately jumping in the car and closing the bullet-proof door, looked at the fallen soldiers, then at the gunmen.

All of the men opened fire and the Minister fell into the car bloody and nearly torn to pieces. The driver slammed the car into reverse and ran over two of the gunmen. One had the presence of mind to shoot through the open rear passenger door, killing the driver, before escaping with a surviving colleague.

The now driverless car slammed into the wall of the compound and began emitting the sickening sound of a blaring horn.

[Cyretopolitania]

Ministry of Justice
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

Dr. Ibrahim Abrika stood behind the podium in the Ministry’s press room. He was a slight man dressed in a Western-style suit with a fez. He seemed to almost blend into the background despite being the fourth most powerful of the government.

He adjusted the glasses on the tip of nose and looked up. “As I was saying, we have identified the surviving assassins as Ahmad Bekele of Numia and Cismann Jengo of Kartibia. We have been in communication with the appropriate authorities in both countries, and they have pledged their assistance in apprehending these murders.

“In addition, we have identified both men, as well as their fellow conspirators who were killed at the scene, as having ties to Qubtian intelligence. Therefore, we can only conclude that the brutal murder of Defence Minister Field Marshal Reis was ordered by the Qubtian government.

“I have been informed by Foreign Minister Count Anthony Massi that, with bilateral diplomatic relations suspended, a letter demanding the immediate surrender of those responsible for ordering this heinous act has been delivered by our Ambassador to the Qubitan Embassy in Semien.”

[Breucia]

Joint post with Qubti and Anahuac

Flight VNB345 on approach to Dfhanor

His Serene Highness The Constable sagged into the leather chair of the private jet, a wearied expression on his face.

“..But Nicryll,” he protested, “I was friends with the father, I barely know the sons.” He ignored the pang of pain in his stomach as he lied to his only son.

The phone line crackled and popped. “It’s everywhere, father, everywhere.” The voice of the Hereditary Prince of the Cinque Ports was breathless with worry. “A princess, locked up and experimented on! You swear you knew nothing of it?”

“By the Nine,” his father replied, damning his soul, “I tell you, I knew nothing of this.”

“And when you saw Gussie?” There was an undercurrent of sharpness in the younger man’s voice.

“He’s a vegetable,” protested the Constable, “It’s tragic. He never spoke to me, never asked about his wife. What do you think of me? That I would visit a man half lost to the spirits and talk with him of his lost son? What kind of a monster do you take me for?”

The line crackled and popped. “I know,” said Nicryll eventually, “I’m sorry, I just don’t want us to be caught up in this Jæger mess.”

“We won’t Nicryll, you worry too much. They’ve always been a strange family, but the hunting is always good.” There was a pause. “The thing you have to remember is…”

“It just doesn’t look good.” The Hereditary Prince spoke over his father. There was an awkward pause whilst both men waited for the other to begin again.

“There’s a terrible delay on this line,” said Geofmede Yeskalyn eventually, “Where are you? I thought you were at home?”

“I’m in Jrawa, for the trade mission. Prince Trissariph was supposed to do it but he’s come down with the mumps.”

The Constable nodded sagely. “Yes,” he said, “I’d heard about that. Will you be back for Nim-Sahteth?”

“I think so,” replied Nicryll, “Are you going to the Agglish?”

“Of course,” his father said solemnly, “It is to be expected of me.”

There was a burst of static on the line.
“Anyway, I’d best go, we’ll be landing soon. I spent this morning at an Agricultural Show in Jurby. Tomorrow I’ve to open an art gallery in Shah Elunore. I will have a few hours after first light, I will call you then.”

“You do too much father,” Nicryll said with a weary chuckle, “I thought I was supposed to be helping you?”

“Nonsense,” said the Constable, “I’m only 88. There’s still life in these old bones.” A hostess appeared beside him. “But Nicryll, I must go.”

To the day he was called to the Nine, Nicryll would never know why he said what he did. Theirs was not the sort of relationship prone to such remarks.

“Father?” he said suddenly, “I love you.”

The Constable’s face flushed with a fatherly embarrassment. “I love you too Nicryll, I will see you soon.” He placed the phone back into the receiver.

The hostess smiled. “Would your highness like anything before we land?”

The Constable stared into the empty chair opposite him. “Yes,” he said without looking up, “Bring me the 30 year old single malt I’ve been saving.”

She curtsied. “Of course, sir.”

In the cockpit the pilots began running through the pre-landing checklist. A flash of orange caught their eye.

“Bit early for fireworks,” sniffed the co-pilot, “It spoils it when people set them off all year.”

“I agree,” said the pilot, “And the ones from Qubti are the worst. They make a beautiful colour as they blow half your hand off.”

The co-pilot laughed. “Isn’t that the truth?”

Death, when it came, was mercifully swift. The supersonic missile smashed into the jet and detonated so quickly that none of the occupants were aware they were dying before they found themselves facing eternity.

109th Anti-Aircraft Battery, a few moments earlier

A cool evening breeze blew through the broken window. Captain Ballaeril Aramaer looked down at his polished shoes as blood pooled around them.

“Where is he?” he barked. A recruit, his shirt stained with worried sweat, looked up.

“T-minus 50 seconds sir,” he replied, his voice breaking as he spoke.

Aramaer looked about the anxious faces. He ignored the men cursing as they moved the corpses. “Men,” he said, striding over the shell casings, “Have courage. Like you, I have no personal animosity against Yeskalyn, but you must all see that if we are to free ourselves from the shackles of our so-called masters then we must cast off the dead head of the past. We are at the birth of a new Breucia!” He looked down at the floor again. “And doesn’t every birth bring with it some blood?”

The Workers' and Peasants' Red Fleet Submarine Cipactli

Captain Ixdira Mazatl hated working with the Veggroepe van die Werkersklas, the Combat Group of the Working Class. He wasn’t sure what he disliked most; the cold, dead eyes or the smug self-assurance.

The VvdW had started life as a uniformed rabble of the Constitutional Socialist Party. That was before Reikenau had concluded that, like George Washington before him, “To place any dependance upon Militia, is, assuredly, resting upon a broken staff”. At that point the VvdW was transformed from an annual camping event for blowhards into an elite fighting force, one loyal not to the state but to the Party.

Mazatl checked his watch. “Right,” he said, unsure as to whether to address them as men when they were really little more than butchers, “The operation should be go. I can release your orders.” He untucked a manilla envelope from under his arm and handed it to the leader.

“Humph,” he grunted, “Target practice then?”

“Of a sort,” sniffed the Captain, “Your main target is this man.” At a wordless command a projector burst into life and the picture of a man appeared on the cramped galley wall. “Belphar Faxisys, The Toshiagh.”

One of the Combat Group looked up. “The what?”

“The Prime Minister. It is critical to the success of the mission that all members of the current government be liquidated as expediently as possible.”

The leader looked up from his notes. “Can the Breucians not be relied upon to do the job?”

“Would you be here if we thought they could?”

He shrugged. “Fair point.”

“In the pack you will find a layout of the city. We’ll bring you in as close as we dare but you’ll have to take a dingy the rest of the way. You should, hopefully,” he didn’t seem sure, “Have learnt some rudimentary Breucian but in any event stay close to this man, Lieutenant Wimleath Sharel, he’ll be your main point of contact. He will take you to the government quarter. After that…well I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The leader nodded. “When do we go?”

Mazatl looked at his watch. “Officially in 109 minutes, but we’ve got to wait for the signal for when the real shooting starts. Could be sooner, could be later. My advice, not that you need it, is to be ready asap.”

“Bring us to the shore,” said one of the group, “And we will do the rest.” His laugh chilled the navy man to his bones.

“Yes,” he said after a moment, “I’m sure you will.”

Ministry of Special Services
Iskandariya, Qubti

“The operation has begun,” Major Omar Abdo said, looking up from the encrypted phone he held in his hand. “The Constable’s plane is confirmed down.”

Brigadier Saadah Kamel took a puff of his pungent cigarette then held it between his thumb and index finger. “Good. Now if our allies come through.” He looked at Assim Salah, who sat to his left, two phone lines open on his own encrypted phone.

“Our socialist… brothers,” Salah began, knowing that Kamel cared little for their supposed state ideology, “will come through. My old ally Xonactl has assured me of that.”

Kamel gave a non-committal noise.

“And our man in Breucia is closely watching the situation to make sure that Colonel Gennorin follows through in… dealing with the King.”

“He had better,” Kamel said.

“Our man is certain he sees the logic in using the King’s own plot against the Constable to uproot the entire rotten system of monarchy all at once and will act,” Salah said, sounding more confident than he felt.

Dfhanor, Breucia

On the other end of one of Assim Salah’s encrypted phone lines was Karim Fathy, a dealer in spices, grains and small electronics sat quietly in his small apartment. Several televisions were on but muted, tuned to various Breucian and international stations. Another phone, the one whose number had only been given to one man - Breucian Colonel Leoamar Gennorin - sat beside him.

Fathy rubbed his chin, then dabbed fruitlessly at the sweat building on his forehead. Even more than Salah, he was aware of the planning and preparation that had gone into this evening’s events. However, also more than Salah or any of the others in Iskandariya, he knew that once the bullets - real and metaphorical - started flying, plans went out the window.

It was no longer about intricate timelines, waypoints and signals. Now it was a chaotic, improvisational race to the finish line. Hopefully, all their plans had given them the advantage in knowing what the real finish line was and it would help them get their first. But, had he been the believer he sometimes pretended to be, he would say it was all in God’s hands now.

The Toshiagh’s Office, Dfhanor

“Your Grace, have you spoken with the Queen and Prince Regent?”

“No, but I shall be doing so as a matter of urgency. That will be all at this time.”

Belphar Faxisys had seen enough. “Turn it off,” he said, turning back to the room.

Bertrand Mateschitz removed his spectacles and polished them on a handkerchief. Faxisys found this habit increasingly grating. “Well,” he deigned eventually to say, “That’s something of a mess, isn’t it?”

As though suddenly activated, like a long slumbering toy, Adelvara Loradi bound to her feet. “It’s an opportunity though. With the entire Ernestrian Establishment in meltdown, now would be an excellent opportunity to renegotiate the interest payments on the debt.”

The Toshiagh pulled a face. “By the Nine,” he muttered, “A girl has been imprisoned, I don’t think this is really a time for politics.”

Fury erupted on the face of the private secretary. “This is an ideal time,” she said, raising herself to full (modest) height, “If you weren’t too soft you’d see it for yourself.”

Before Faxisys could shut her down, the only Ernestrian in the room spoke. “It’s indeed a tragedy,” said Mateschitz in his languid, German-accented Breucian, “Now is a time for solidarity.”

The Toshiagh liked that even less. “Oh please,” he snapped, “I’m not going to shed any tears for the Jægers, after everything they’ve done to us. It’s about time they got it in the ass.”
Bertrand raised his eyebrows. 'But...' was all he managed before a sudden burst of gunfire shattered the tense quiet outside

Faxisys tried to look composed. “Probably a wedding,” he said after a moment, “But anyway, as I was saying…” Angry shouting could be heard in the street outside.

“Another protest?” asked Mateschitz

“For the last time,” barked the Toshiagh, “I am not rolling back on the pension reform.”

Loradi practically ran to the desk. “You need to take a firm hand on this,” she said quickly, “Going easy on them will only encourage the rest. This needs the smack of firm government.”

Faxisys nodded. “You’re right Adelvara,” he said with a determined nod, “Damn right. I’m going to get Leozorwyn on this straightaway!” He picked up the telephone on his desk. “Funny,” he said after a moment, “The line’s dead. Those no good hick bastards must have cut the wires. Well I’m not standing for that…” He stood and picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. Just as he did the door to his office exploded as a large boot kicked it down. The three occupants looked startled. Behind it came men, armed men, dressed in black.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Faxisys, “Who the hell are you?”

The men did not reply. They turned, in unison, towards a single person. He fetched out a tablet computer and swiped it open. On it appeared the picture of Belphar Faxisys, Toshiagh of the Faithful Kingdom of Breucia. The leader gave a nod and the group quickly emptied their magazines into the man, who died before he hit the floor.

Loradi screamed. Mateschitz stood in frozen terror. One of the men turned to the obvious leader.

“Wat van hierdie twee?”

The leader shrugged. “Dood hulle,” he said in a hard voice, “Hoe minder getuies, hoe beter.” The second nodded and raised his rifle again. “Geen getuies nie,” he said with a cold smile as his gun belched flame and lead, “Geen getuies nie.”

The Headquarters of the Provisional Committee for National Integrity, [Location Classified]

Colonel Leoamar Gennorin stared intently at the chessboard. The pieces were perfectly aligned; now it was a matter of playing the game.. One piece had already been removed; the bishop, representing the recently scattered Constable. There was a nervous pit of tension in his stomach as he waited for news on the others.

Major Malcudar Iarphine approached and saluted.

“Well?” asked Gennorin, not looking up.

“The Toshiagh has been liquidated,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, as though commenting on the weather or the price of fish.

Gennorin nodded. “Good,” he said and moved his hand to pick up the Queen. He hovered over it. “Who was did it?”

The Major looked at his notes. “The Anahuacans.”

The Colonel grunted. “Pity,” he said, “I would have hoped our men had the courage of their convictions, but a death’s a death.” With a sudden fury he picked up the Queen and threw it across the room, it pinged against a metal filing cabinet. “That worthless son of a whore.” He picked up the cell phone next to him and called the only number stored on it.

“Fathy,” he said gruffly, “The Queen is down. Moving to stage 2.” He hung up without another word.

The Royal Palace, Ref Tirion, Breucia

He remembered first the rough hands shaking him awake. His Royal Highness, the Prince Trissariph, crashed into wakefulness.

“What,” he muttered, “What is going on?” A heavy, calloused hand covered the royal face.

“Please,” said the young servant, “Please your highness, we don’t have much time. There’s a coup, sir, a f**king coup.” The Prince blinked. “He pulled off the hand.

“What?” he whispered, “How? Why?”

“The Nine forgive me, it’s your nephew, the King.”

“What?” the Prince could not believe his ears, “Yorryll? What has he done now?”

“Made a pact,” said the servant. He stood up from the bed and began to throw what clothes he could into a battered suitcase, “With unclean spirits. The Constable is dead.”

“Dead?” The Prince stared in disbelief. “Not Geofmede, surely not. May his name be endured.”

“May his name be endured,” replied the servant solemnly, “But it’s true sir, shot down as his plane was coming in to land.”
Prince Trissariph stood up, despite the shakiness in his legs. “But why?”

“The Reeve of the Faithful—Protector of the Holy Agglish and Treasured Grandson of Ruehnar, Lord of the Hunt— has conspired with Qubti to reclaim his throne. But he is to be betrayed, all of them are. I must get you out of here or you will go to the place of your fathers with him.”

The Prince’s head swam. “But how do you know all this?” The servant shifted nervously.

“Your Royal Highness asks too many questions. Here, put this on.” He threw across a rough and course workers smock. “If we’re lucky we can reach the river before they notice you’re gone. I have a cousin who can drive you to Olalbel and then, if the Gods favour it, perhaps the Copts can give you shelter.”

“But my wife, my children?” pleaded the Prince, “What is to become of them?”

The servant tutted. “They are already at the river, if you do not hurry then they will be discovered and killed, and you along with them. Now come, quickly. If we survive, the Nine may grant you the answers you seek. If not..." He shrugged. "You can ask them yourself."

The Prince thought better than to correct this flippancy. He pulled on the smock and followed him out, into the darkness and away from the mouth of the storm.

Dfhanor, Breucia

Karim Fathy frowned deeply as Colonel Gennorin hung up on him after his terse message. He looked at the encrypted phone beside him and unconsciously shook his head. No, he thought, it was too early to report to Iskandariya. Especially anything less than success. Particularly when it was only a suspicion at this point.

After a deep breath, Fathy pulled another mobile phone out of his pocket. He entered a number.

”Speak,” a familiar gruff voice said over the phone.

“Are you home?” Fathy asked.

“Yes,” the voice said, and Fathy nodded. His operatives were in place with Gennorin’s men at the Royal Palace.

“Good. The little man’s stomach may be upset,” Fathy said, “you may need to make dinner.”

After a moment of silence, the voice said, “Understood.”

Fathy disconnected the call and sat back. If, as he feared, the ‘little man’ - Coronel Gennorin - had lost his stomach to remove the King, his men would take matters into their own hands. With a little luck, the Coronel would soon be the leader of a new republic. Whether he wanted to be or not.

[Excalbia]

The Private Residence of Grace Petersen
Citadel Excalbia

Early in their marriage, Grace Petersen and Walter Lapins had developed certain habits that had stuck with them through parenthood, Walter’s business career and Grace’s political rise. They preferred a firm queen size bed with a pillowtop cushion, Grace always slept on the right hand side of the bed, and the phone was on Walter’s side. That is until Grace had become Minister of State. At that point, a phone had been installed on her side of the bed for the first time in their marriage.

The phone rang, and Grace blindly reached out for it. She picked up the antiquated corded receiver and held it haphazardly aside her head. “Hello?” She murmured, almost intelligibly.

“Your Excellency,” a clear, calm voice said over the phone, “this is State Operations. Can you go secure?”

“Secure?” The fog started to clear, and she sat up.

“Yes, Ma’am. Secure.”

“Just a sec,” she said, as she fumbled with the lamp on her bedside table before she found the switch. She opened the table’s drawer and fished out her identification badge, to which was attached a slender piece of plastic.

The light disturbed Walter, who instinctively covered his eyes with his arms. “What is it?” He asked.

“It’s Ops,” Grace said, as she shoved the plastic key into the phone and entered a code on the keypad.

“Shit,” Walter said, as he, too, sat up in bed.

“Secure,” the Minister of State said over the phone, as she turned her back on her husband.

“Secure,” repeated the voice on the phone. “Ma’am, we have reports coming in the Constable of Breucia’s plane has crashed.”

“Crashed?”

“There are, as yet, unconfirmed reports it was shot down.”

“Who?”

“By Breucian AA batteries outside Dfhanor.”

“Dear God,” Petersen muttered.

“And the Embassy has reports that there’s been gunfire at or near the Toshiagh’s office in Dfhanor…”

“Toshiagh?”

“Their prime minister equivalent, Ma’am.”

“Damn it,” Peteresen said, running her hand through her hair.

“The Embassy is asking for guidance…”

“Tell them to get as much info as they can. As soon as anything is said about a crash or anything on local media, they can put out the usual guidance to Excalbians about safehavening.” She drew in a breath. “I need to speak with the Chancellor immediately. And we’ll need to convene the interagency group.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the voice said. “I’ll call you back as soon as we have the Chancellor and will reach out to MOD Ops.”

Petersen hung the phone to find her husband placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get out some clothes for you and go make a pot of coffee,” he said.

“Thanks, Walt,” she said, patting his hand.

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post with Jrawa, Breucia and Knootoss))

Zuideinde
Grand Pensjonary's Working Palace
Haag, Hartstad, Knootoss

The President of Jrawa was hosted in some of the same space as had been used to receive Emperor Joseph, with a hall containing oil paintings from the Knootian Golden Age and the gold trimmed accents of the antique wooden chairs made for an imposing backdrop. The seating arrangements were once again informal, with tables of different sizes populated to make for socially interesting combinations, beyond the demands of strict protocol. The President and First Lady were seated with Grand Pensionary Maurits Viljoen and the First Girlfriend, popularly known as Henda Hartendief.

The appetiser served to Maurits Viljoen, First Lady Rachel Haroche and Foreign Minister Benjamin Lahcen was a delicate mousse made from smoked trout, blended with saffron, piped into a crisp pastry shell and finished with a sprig of fresh dill. President Haroche, Ambassador and Mr. Battash and Henda were served a silky, golden soup made from roasted garlic and sweet parsnips, enriched with parve almond milk for creaminess, and topped with crispy parsnip chips and delicate edible flowers.

A bread basket was added to the table, containing tulip-shaped saffron rolls, spelt and rye loaves, and breadsticks dusted with sesame seeds. These were served with kosher olive oil infused with thyme and citrus zest, as well as a selection of kosher wines, warm spiced apple cider, and sparkling pomegranate juice.

President Haroche sampled his soup, then looked towards Viljoen. “Everything looks lovely, Your Excellency,” he said. “And the soup is delicious. My compliments to the chef.”

“Thank you. The chef couldn’t have done it without Henda”, Maurits Viljoen chimed in. “She knows all about Kemetian food… and entertainment.” He waggled his brows. “She’s prepared something special. Haven’t you, dear?”

“I’m a cultural ambassador,” said Henda proudly, “I got a certificate and everything. I’m probably the most famous Breucian in the region after, you know..” she clicked her fingers, “You know, the one with the face. After him it’s probably me. I’m kind of a big deal, or that’s what my record company says.” She laughed. Viljoen did too, but no one else did. “But seriously, I’m actually still very street, that’s what all the producers says. ‘Henda From The Block’ they say, whatever that is.” She moved the soup around with her spoon. “I’m not to talk about the mechanical reclamation of meat this time, I got into so much trouble last time, you wouldn’t believe. But yeah, I’ll be singing very traditional Kemetian…er…disco songs. Much traditional, very Kemetian.”

“I’m sure you’ll love the taste of home”, Viljoen agreed. They were from the same continent, after all. “Served with a sexy Knootian beat and amazing choreography. Really, Henda is being too modest. I think she’s the best-known Breucian. Way more than the President, uh. Sultan…” he looked to Henda so she could fill in the name and/or title of the Breucian head of state.
“King,” said Henda, “King…er…King..” She stopped and thought deeply. “Yes,” she said with a nod, “The King.”

First Lady Haroche turned to her husband with a barely contained look of horror on her matronly face. The President’s smile froze and he looked to Ambassador Battash. The Ambassador gave a sympathetic smile and nodded.

“It sounds delightful,” Foreign Minister Lahcen said, sounding almost convincing.

“Yes,” delightful, “the President repeated. “I… um… well, I haven’t seen much in the way of… um Breucian music.” He looked at his wife, who flashed her own frozen smile. “It should be delightful.”

“That’s a shame”, Maurits Viljoen said as he looked between the pair. “Does Jrawa have famous pop stars? I know you have some beautiful ladies.” He showed a smarmy grin for the First Lady, then went on: “You know, diplomacy isn’t just about buying those warships, or that statement we’ll be putting out. It’s also about cultural exchange, you know. Getting to know each other. I was thinking, maybe Henda could send Jrawa and you could send whoever your Henda is to Knootoss!”

“We would welcome a cultural exchange with Knootoss,” Lahcen said. “And, of course, we would welcome Henda to perform.” He paused. “As for the ‘Jrawan Henda’...” He looked at the President.

The President started to speak, then First Lady Haroche spoke first. “Perhaps that young lady,” she said, “what is her name? Claudette?”

“Claudete Tannoudji,” Ambassador Battash suggested.

“Yes, she is quite popular with our grandchildren,” Rachel Haroche said, smiling.

“Of course,” the President agreed. “Although I was thinking of Ehu Sefra.”

“He is rather more of our generation,” the First Lady said.

“Well, yes,” the President said, “but he fills stadiums with his concerts…”

“Filled, dear,” she said. “Filled. But of course, I suppose they could both tour. I believe I have heard Claudete singing some of Ehu’s old ballads.”

Henda’s brow furrowed at the thought of other nations having a Henda. Surely there was only one? And she was that one, as far as she was aware.

“Should I sing now?” she asked, “I’ve been practising and everything.”

“Well, um,” President Haroche said, looking at the Ambassador.

“That would be lovely,” the Ambassador said, turning to the Grand Pensionary, “assuming that is part of the program, Your Excellency.”

“Oh. It is! It is!” Maurits Viljoen snapped his fingers to signal to the waiter: “Get the band out! And the lights!”

There was a rushing around as everything was prepared. A microphone was fixed on the rim of Henda's cleavage, and then a bright light came to shine on the table with the guests of honour, the light following Henda. Henda made her way to the impromptu stage. She nodded but instead of music there came a single note which Henda hummed. The note stopped and she began.

She hesitantly began. “Ini-as i tayri-w.” Stripped of auto-tune and the other excrescences of the modern music industry, Henda’s natural singing voice had an earthy quality to it. She was not a bad singer, she wouldn’t have got where she was if it were so, but there was a raw tone to it that was lost behind thumping beats and a mix-desk. She sang in Jrawan Hebrew and it was here that her Breucian accent, long dispersed by years speaking in Dutch, broke through like shards of light from behind a cloud.

“When one cannot find what to offer to his/her beloved

Poverty reduces arrogance

Oh life, you dislike me and death does not wish for me

It is me, G–, whom you left to heat and cold.” Henda could not quite bring herself to use ‘God’ singular, since surely there were Nine?

“Oh brothers, a person like me deserves to cry

I miss my beloved, to whom the road is long.”

The first verse concluded, there was a brief pause leading some to think that this might be the end of her performance. For a moment, the room hung in the solemn resonance of her voice—until the spell was shattered by the seismic eruption of the Nieuwe Discotheek beats

“Shall we go for it?” cried Henda to the crowd, “Eén twee drie vier.” If President Haroche had ever wondered what a disco-rendition of a cherished folk song would sound like, he would soon find out. Grand Pensionary Maurits Viljoen clapped along with the disco beat, slightly out of tune, like a dad might at his daughters’ school performance. Which, given the difference in age, wasn’t that implausible.

The Ambassador bravely smiled and nodded along throughout Henda’s performance. President and Mrs. Haroche watched with expressions not unlike those of small animals caught in the headlights of a car while crossing the street at night.

When it was finally over, the Ambassador applauded enthusiastically. After a slight delay, the President and First Lady joined in applause, albeit at a more sedate pace.

“Thank you,” Ambassador Battash said, “that was lovely.”

“Yes,” the President said, “that was… really… really something.”

After a beat, Rachel Haroche added, “Thank you.”

“Yes,” the President said, “of course, thank you.”

[Cyretopolitania]

The Ministry of Defence
Cyretia, Cyretopolitania

The High Command Operations Centre was a large windowless room located in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Defence’s 16th century headquarters in Cyretia’s “New City”. About two thirds of the room was filled with various computer workstations and dedicated instrument panels staffed by uniformed military personnel. Electronic maps and video screens filled the walls. At the back of the room, there was a partitioned area with a large conference table, soundproof walls and thick glass that could be rendered opaque at the touch of a button.

As Vice Marshal Antony Wahrouch, the acting Minister of Defence and Armed Forces Commander following the assassination of Field Marshal Reis, entered the partitioned area a colonel seated in the back room of chairs stood and shouted, “Atten hut!”

The men in the room all stood and came to attention. Along the back row were army and air force colonel majors and colonels, and a few naval captains and junior captains. At the table were the senior officers of the Cyretopolitanian Armed Forces - Admiral Wararni Zeroual, the Chief of the Navy; Air Marshal Samuel Halliche, the Chief of the Air Force; Vice Marshal Rami Mazigh, Commander of the Army of Ameqqran Adrar; Vice Marshal Matiyas Domrane, Commander of the Army of the Alemnas Tinri; Vice Marshal Ezra Guanche, Commander of the Army of the Amezyan Adrar; and Vice Marshal Ignatiyus Benasser, Commander of the Army of the Azegacruf.

Wahrouch walked to the head of the table and said, “Please be seated.” He took his own seat and folded his hands on top of the table. “As you all know, the Constable of Breucia has, it seems, been killed by his own armed forces. It is also now believed that the Toshiagh has also been assassinated.”

He looked at the expressionless faces around the table. “Royal Intelligence believes, but cannot prove at this time, that Qubti is involved.” He paused. “Therefore, His Royal and Pharaonic Majesty, in consultation with His Excellency the President of the Privy Council, has ordered us to full war footing. Public announcements will be made within the hour announcing the closure of all border crossings and ports, and the closure of our air space.”

He turned to Air Marshal Halliche. “Sam, the Air Force will need to send fighters to intercept and escort to the nearest airport any civilian aircraft that cannot divert in time.”

Halliche nodded. “And regular combat air patrols?”

“Yes,” Wahrouch said. He turned to Admiral Zeroual. “Wararni, the Navy will need to put both carrier battles to sea as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” the Admiral said with a nod.

The acting Defence Minister looked at his four army commanders. “Gentlemen, we need all troops moved to defensive positions on all borders. Obviously, the borders with Breucia and Qubti will be reinforced according to Plan Alpha. We also need all divisions not deployed according to Plan Alpha staged and ready to execute Plan Epsilon immediately on command.”

The vice marshals nodded.

Wahrouch stood. “You have your orders, gentlemen.” Everyone else stood. “God save the King,” he said.

“God save the King,” the others replied.

[Breucia]

Joint post with Ernestria and Anahuac {Uncle Noel} because All together now, I'm the same person

The Foreign Ministry Building, Dfhanor

Grewalyn Palee pushed herself back from her desk and stared vacantly at the large crystal chandelier which hung from the middle of her office. When the newly-independent Breucia had looked to establish those organs of state which the Ernestrians had previously occupied they had, as a temporary measure, taken over the headquarters of the Falk Insurance Company which had joined their former masters when they scuttled from the country. It was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement until a dedicated building could be constructed. That had been over a century ago.

Palee looked down at the papers strewn somewhat carelessly across a desk. In one corner, by the ornate but not very useful desk lamp, were the latest demands by Cyretopolitania to the extradition of the murderers of Reis from Qubti.

“Well,” said the Foreign Minister to herself, “The Gods love a trier I suppose.” War, she thought, seemed inevitable.

In the other corner, by a large ink well that successive generations of Foreign Ministers had never quite had the courage to throw out, was the latest intelligence reports on Aerionian fleet movements.

“It’s either a desert or a flood,” she said, pulling a face, “Never anything in between.” She lived in interesting times and not a morning went by that she didn’t wake up regretting it.

There was a loud bang somewhere in the distance. She didn’t look up. ‘Fireworks,’ she thought and dismissed it. It was either a wedding or a graduation or someone had found a twenty krone note they thought lost and decided to celebrate.

She looked down at her notes again. “What is to be done about Aerion?” she asked the leatherbound desk. She was soon to discover that Ameria Ardashir was the least of her worries.

The lights flickered. ‘Odd,’ she thought, ‘No one had mentioned fuel shortages at Cabinet.’ There came from the corridor outside the sounds of frantic feet upon the rich carpet. Saelzee Trisven slammed into the room.

Palee stood. “What is it Salezee?” Her Principal Private Secretary said nothing. Her usually immaculate black hair had come away from the bun casting black strands across her red face. She said nothing but searched the room with frantic eyes. With a final burst of speed she crossed to the opposite end of the office and turned on the television. It revealed nothing more than the logo of the NRF, the national broadcaster.
Grewalyn was in no mood for games. “What’s going on Salezee? What are you doing?” She stood.

Still Trisven did not answer. Scrolling the channels she soon came across the source of the commotion. A young military officer sat behind a desk, his medals glinting under studio lights, and read from a sheet of paper in front of him.

Citizens of Breucia,
Today, the Armed Forces have intervened to protect the sovereignty and cultural integrity of our nation. The civilian government, blinded by reckless ambitions of rapprochement with the Kingdom of Cyretopolitania, has betrayed the trust of the people it was sworn to serve.
At the heart of their misguided diplomacy lies the fate of the ruins of the Monastery of St. Achillias, near Olalbel. These ruins, though of great importance to Cyretopolitanian history, stand as a stark reminder of their past domination over these lands—a time when our people endured subjugation and humiliation at the hands of the Crusaders. The recent discussions to cede or compromise control over this site are not acts of reconciliation but of capitulation.
This betrayal could not be allowed to proceed. The ruins of St. Achillias are a symbol of their claims to supremacy, not ours. For the government to even entertain surrendering this land to Cyretopolitania is to trample on the hard-won sovereignty of Breucia and to disrespect generations of our ancestors who fought a long twilight struggle for independence.
In light of these grave actions, the Armed Forces have assumed temporary authority to preserve the independence and dignity of our nation. A Provisional Council of National Stability has been established to restore order, protect our sovereignty, and safeguard the interests of all Breucians.
Let us be clear: we are not against peace with Cyretopolitania, nor do we reject constructive dialogue. However, peace cannot be achieved by conceding to demands that erase the scars of their historical domination at the expense of our nation.
To the people of Breucia, especially those in Olalbel, we assure you that we stand firm in protecting your lands, your identity, and your future. To the international community, we urge you to understand that our actions are not aggression but a necessary step to prevent injustice and defend our sovereignty.
We call on all citizens to remain calm, united, and resolute during this transition. The Provisional Council will work tirelessly to uphold stability and ensure a brighter future for Breucia.
For our fatherland, our pride, and our independence.
Signed,
The Provisional Council of National Stability

Palee stood in shocked silence. “By the Nine,” she whispered, “Tell me this is some elaborate hoax.”

The message began to repeat and Trisven turned off the television. “They’ve seized the Senedh Building and the Ormeshys Palace. There’s checkpoints going up across the city. We’ve got to go, now.”

Palee stood like a deer in the headlights of a large oncoming car. “What about Belphar?”

Trisven turned away and wiped a tear from her eye. “They’ve taken the Toshiagh’s Residence. They will probably be here soon for you.”

Palee looked up. “Has he been taken prisoner?” The silence was deafening. “Oh no.”

From the street outside came the sound of a diesel engine. Trisven moved across to the window. “Fuck,” she said, “They’re here.” She turned quickly and ran across the room. “Come on,” she said, grabbing Palee, “Or you’ll be next.” Hauling the Foreign Minister she proceeded to an ornate wall light and gave it a sharp pull. Nothing happened.

"‘It’s the other one,’ Palee whispered, pointing shakily. Trisven shot her an exasperated glare, crossing to the painting. With a sharp pull, a hidden door groaned open, revealing a narrow spiral staircase cloaked in darkness."

“At least,” she said, pushing the large door open, “We can thank the Ernestrians for forward-planning, they knew to build escape routes when they ran off with our money.” Behind the secret door was a dark, cobweb filled metal spiral staircase that creaked and clattered as they made their way down. When they were about halfway down they heard angry voices above them. “Where is she?” cried a voice, “Where the hell could she have gone?”

There was another, gruffer voice which spoke. “Julle verdomde boere,” it said, “There must be a secret passageway.” He stopped. “Jy. Soek daarvoor,” said the voice, “She can’t have gone far.”

“Come on,” hissed Trisven, “It won’t be long before they find us.” They crept down the staircase, pausing in anxious silence every time the ancient ironwork rattled against the brick walls. Eventually they found themselves in the underground garage and, with a little effort, they pushed open the rusty door.

They half-fell onto the cold concrete. “Come on,” said Trisven, picking herself up, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“But to where?” said Palee, “They will have taken control of the airport.”

“I don’t know,” said Trisven, “But we can’t stay here.” Just then, in the damp chillness of the garage, there came a sound that chilled both women to their souls. The unmistakable click of a pistol’s safety.

They looked up and saw one of the police protection officers, his gun drawn and shakily pointed at them.
They froze. At that moment Palee debated if she could throw himself at his legs. It might not work but, by all accounts, she was most likely going to be shot anyway.

The policeman’s eyes were wide. Then, slowly, he began to lower his pistol. “By the Nine,” he half-gasped, “I thought you were one of them. Soldiers are crawling everywhere.”

“Yes,” said Trisven, “We know. We need to get out of here.”

The policeman looked around the empty garage. “The cleaners’ van is here. You can hide in the back. But where will we go?”

It was at this moment that Isarrel, Goddess of Wisdom, decided to bestow Her Gifts upon Her Children. “Keltenhof,” said Palee, “It can only be Keltenhof.”

Trisven looked skeptical. “The Ernestrian base?” she asked in an exasperated voice, “Must we go cap in hand to them for safety?”

“Can you think of anywhere else?” The silence was its own answer. They quickly crossed to the battered old van and tried the handle.

“Locked,” said Trisven, “Now what?”

The policeman pushed them to one side. “I will get this.” He reached for his belt and the two women preemptively winced at the thought of a shot being fired in the compact confines of the garage. But instead of his gun the man pulled out a paperclip and tried the lock.

“There,” he said after a moment, “We’re in.”

Palee raised an eyebrow. “Do they teach you that at the academy?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve done my time on patrol. The amount of people who lock themselves out of their cars and call the police.” He unlocked the back and both women climbed inside, hiding themselves under bin bags and mops. Whilst they did so, the policeman grunted as he pulled off part of the dashboard. After some fiddling, and swearing, he hot wired the car.

“Did they teach you that at the academy?” asked the Foreign Minister. This time the policeman did not answer them. “You should be quiet,” he snapped, “Only the Gods know how I will get past the checkpoint. He took off his jacket and stuffed it under the passenger seat. He pulled on a pair of overalls and coaxed the old van up the ramp and out onto the street.

They were stopped almost immediately. She felt the van stop and heard something, or someone, tapping on the window

“Hey,” said a voice, “You shouldn’t be out, there’s a curfew.”
“Is there?” said the policeman in a dozy voice, “Why?”

“Why?” asked the other voice incredulously, “Why? Because we’ve taken the government. Haven’t you seen the news?”

“Nah sir,” replied the policeman, “I don’t watch that, it’s boring. I was listening to Henda on my PeacockPad. My cousin says her new album’s trash, but it’s got a good beat for vacuuming."

“By the Nine,” replied the voice, “No wonder this country is going to the dogs when bloody trash from the hill country washes up here. Well there’s a curfew, so get going or I’ll pull you in.”

“Yes sir,” replied the policeman, “I’ll go home straightaway. I’m sure Mr Eilsatra won’t mind if I take the van home tonight, on account of you taking the government sir.”

“Just piss off will you?” There were sounds of heavy boots moving away. The van started again, winding through sidestreets, occasionally stopping whilst the policeman ducked down as a patrol passed. Eventually, after nearly two hours to do a twenty minute drive, bright lights filled the van.

“What do you want?” The language was Breucian but the accent distinctly (gutterally) Ernestrian. Palee jumped up and barged to the front of the van.

“There’s been a coup,” she screamed, the building tension of the evening finally exploding, “A bloody coup. I need asylum.”

The young Ernestrian sentry stumbled backwards in shock, pulling up his rifle to his chest. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Grewalyn Palee, the Foreign Minister, and they’re killing ministers. Do you hear me, they’re killing the democratically elected government of this country. So if you don’t let us in then our blood will be on your hands.”

The sentry looked from Palee to the policeman and back. “Wait here,” he said after a moment, and turned and stepped back into his booth. There passed an eternity before he returned. “You can come in,” he said curtly, “But we will need to search the vehicle first.”

“You can always rely on the Ernestrians to do the right thing,” said Trisven, who by now was sitting on a box of floor cleaner, “After they’ve exhausted every other option.”

A Little While Later

They sat in what was clearly a waiting room. Palee smoked a cigarette with a shaking hand. It was no-smoking, but no one challenged her.
The presence of the policeman appeared before her. “Coffee?” he asked, holding a plastic cup for her.

She smiled a thanks and took it from him. “I never asked you your name,” she said, staring into the deep black liquid.

He sat next to her on the plastic chair. “Nerivaris,” he said, “Davlaeron Nerivaris.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you, Davlaeron. For tonight.”

He gave a stoic shrug. “I was only following my oath,” he replied, “Unlike those traitorous dogs.”

She said nothing but stared ahead. “Who were those people with them? The ones with the accent.”

“I don’t know,” came the reply, “But I got this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a spent casing. “When they stormed the building they shot old Ularora, may his name be endured. I hid in a cupboard and waited till they had moved on. Some hero I was.”

Palee turned again. “If you hadn’t then Salezee and me would almost certainly be dead.” He didn’t reply but turned his head away instead. Palee took the casing from his open hand and turned it over with her fingers.

“It looks like one of ours,” she said. She held it up to the light. “.293,” she read, “I wonder what that means?”

The Helios Club, Bodendorf

The ringing of the ancient telephone echoed through the grand entrance to one of the most exclusive clubs in Bodendorf. The Porter picked it up.

“Helios,” he said. There was never any need to elaborate further. “Yes he’s present. Right, I see. I’ll ask.” He placed the receiver done onto the polished mahogany and quickly climbed the ornate staircase.

The Duke of Starograd was alone in the billiards room. “Oh what is it now?” he asked, “Have they found a royal bastard in the broom closet?”

“Apologies for disturbing you, Your Grace, but there’s been a bit of a situation in Breucia by all accounts. The Kundschaftsbureau wondered if they might call upon Your Grace at your earliest convenience in the Situation Room?”

The Duke stood up. “For Christ’s Sake.”