Two dozen men, each clothed in a richly decorated coat buttoned high on the neck, slowly made their way to a heavy Oaken table. Aides and servants wove between them, like small boats threading their way between ponderous ships of war. Blue was the predominant color, while gold tassels, medals, and ribbons of several colors were in rich abundance.
“Order! Order!” A gavel was struck twice in quick succession from a much smaller table at the larger one's foot. Here sat a pair of clerks and the speaker, armed with the small wooden gavel. The Lords were helped into their seats.
“On this day, the 1st of August, 1205, the Lord's Council is called to order. Lords of Cimbria in attendance being. . .”
The table was full, with twelve men on each side. At the head was a huge throne, mounted on a star-shaped dais. It was empty. A low murmur of conversation continued while roll was called. Finally--
“First order: old business. Lord Temsworth.”
A gray haired gentleman with a large pot belly covered in small medallions stood slowly. “The Thyrenian situation has been resolved in our favor. For a full report, I present General Alberts.”
The general, wearing a more sparsely decorated and functional uniform, materialized at the foot of the table and bowed. He cut a neat figure, with comparatively subdued gold trim on his shoulder panels and a plain steel sword at his side.
“Lords and Gentlemen, I am at your service.”
“Your report, please, General Alberts.”
The general nodded before beginning his narrative. “Asfar landed nearly ten thousand troops in the capital city of Thyrene, Milos, this past February. According to our intelligence, they landed with sixty units of steam cavalry, eight hundred lancers, and twenty two pieces of artillery. They were joined by nearly thirty-five thousand Thyrenian troops, all foot, under the command of a number of generals. At the end of the month, they marched South along the peninsula to retake land lost to rival Atavia last year.”
Two aides had appeared as well, and were now turning pages in a large diagram.
“Atavia's forces consisted of approximately twelve thousand foot, and our forces of five thousand men. At the end of February, we had two hundred and forty one active steam cavalry units, forty eight pieces of field artillery and twelve siege mortars.”
He gestured to a large yellow and red blob on the map, and a smaller group of blue and purple blobs. A third aide was handing out personalized reports to each member of the council.
“Asfar's forces moved South along the coast. We first met them here on the 11th of March, and again on the 13th and the 14th.” The aides turned the page. “Our first major action occurred on the 17th, outside the village of Eia. Here, Asfar was forced to . . .”
The low hum of conversation gradually died down as the report continued. At various points a clarifying question was asked, about the precise number of casualties or length of a particular engagement. Gradually the story unfolded, with Asfar's army advancing, beaten and finally forced to seek shelter in Milos. After a little more than a half hour, the general began to wind down.
“. . . and so the situation remains stable. Milos remains under siege, and the naval blockade has been effective. We expect their surrender to Atavia within three to six months.”
There was a murmur of approval around the table.
Lord Temsworth stood. “Thank you, General Alberts.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I call for an immediate vote on continued action in Thyrene.”
“Are there any objections?” called the speaker. There were none. “All in favor of continued action in Thyrene?”
“Aye.” The lords spoke nearly in unison.
“Opposed?”
Silence.
“Motion is approved.” The clerks made a brief notation before handing the next article to the speaker. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Next: New business. Lord Handlings.”
A tall, elderly man rose slowly to his feet, balanced precariously like a model skeleton. A gold monocle clung to one of his eyes. “Lords . . . and . . . gentlemen . . .” he wheezed, “I . . . present . . . Colonel . . . Agincourt.”
Agincourt appeared at the foot of the table, bowing deeply. He was decorated sparsely as well, in the style of the general before him. “Lords and Gentlemen, I am at your service.”
“Please . . . continue . . . Colonel . . .” wheezed Lord Handlings, already beginning to ease back into his high-backed chair.
“As you please, milord.” Agincourt bowed again. “Milords, I present Plan Indigo: the Annexation of Eastern Listeria.”
There was an immediate outburst of indignation from several at the table. “Order! We will have order!” The speaker slammed the gavel down repeatedly, and the room quieted somewhat. Colonel Agincourt, still standing expressionless, took this as a sign to continue.
“Our absorption of Listeria in 1192 was incomplete. More than sixty percent of the nation remains effectively independent despite our occupation of the capital. This is a principal factor in the continuing Listerian unrest.”
The aides had reappeared with another series of maps and graphs. Agincourt gestured to one graph in particular.
“As you can see, the rate of Cimbrian casualty has not declined in a single year since the beginning of the occupation. Listerian rebels have been found armed with weapons clearly provided to them by the Eastern Coalition. East Listeria has become the central theater of their campaign to undermine our gains in East.”
Agincourt gestured to the map. “Plan Indigo will bring the rest of Listeria under our control, removing the source of unrest and stabilizing the Eastern front. The alternative is continued disorder, chaos and needless death.”
A chorus of voices broke out once again. “Lord Chevington has the floor!” cried the speaker.
“With what army, Colonel, do you propose we invade Listeria?”
“The Third Army, garrisoned here in Oberon, will provide the bulk of the force. They will be joined by assault elements of the Fifth Army that have already deployed to Listeria.”
“Won't that weaken our presence in the areas of Listeria that are already in turmoil?”
“The assault units of the Fifth Army consist mostly of steam cavalry and artillery, neither of which perform any active role in the occupation.”
“Point of order!” came a new voice. “Lord Rawlings has the floor.” replied the speaker.
A middle-aged man in fashionable civilian clothes rose to his feet. “I must protest this blatant breach of decorum by Lord Handlings.”
The room quieted at once. “What exactly are you referring to, Lord Rawlings?” said the speaker.
“The invasion of Listeria, regardless of its merits or flaws, does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Minister of Finance. I move that we dismiss the proposal immediately.”
“The continued cost of occupation is a financial matter, and therefore I see no problem with Lord Handling's proposal.” Lord Temsworth had risen to his feet again.
“It also concerns the Minister of State, and yet if I brought an invasion plan to the council it would dismissed on exactly those grounds! Plan Indigo clearly falls under your authority, Lord Temsworth, as Minister of Defense, yet because of the continued action in Thyrene you were forced to use Handlings to bring it to the table. Your blatant political maneuvering brings no honor to this council!”
“You can spout unfounded accusations all day, Lord Rawlings, but unless you have a relevant concern, I suggest you stop wasting this council's time.”
“Very well.” Rawlings turned to the speaker. “Your ruling on this point of order?”
The speaker hesitated, looking to the far end of the table where a figure sat in shadow. The man had been silent until now, but at the speaker's glance he gave his head an almost imperceptible shake.
“Point of order overruled. The proposal moves to discussion.”
Lord Rawlings snorted in disgust. “Fine. As Minister of State, I raise an objection.”
“Go on, please, Lord Rawlings.”
“The stated purpose of this operation is to bring order to the occupied regions of Listeria and save innocent lives. However, I can state with absolute confidence that the Eastern Coalition will view this as act of aggression and respond accordingly. If Plan Indigo goes forward, we will provoke them into a state of war which will result in tens or hundreds of thousands dead.”
“I see no proof of that, Lord Rawlings.” Temsworth was still on his feet as well.
“Proof?!? Ha! The invasion of Listeria would be in direct violation of the treaty of Aser, and if the Eastern Coalition leadership hopes to maintain its power with the upcoming elections it must respond to that violation as forcefully as possible. What's more, the Saric church has condemned our occupation of all coalition member states and are certain to call for war. Once their proclamation is issued, we'll have the entire Eastern front aflame within a week!”
“Which would clearly be a failure of the department of state. You are responsible for maintaining peaceful relationships with Cimbria's neighbors, are you not, Lord Rawlings?”
The Minister of State gaped with incredulity for a moment. “One wonders why the nation of Cimbria even bothers with having a department of state at all when the only tool of statecraft that this council seems to understand is the blunt hammer of warfare! You would see it too, Lord Temsworth, and you, Lord Handlings, if you weren't all Lord Ramsay's pawns --”
“That is quite enough, Rawlings.”
The man at the end of the table sat forward into the light. He was young by the council's standards, just beginning to enter middle age. His jet black hair matched the sole decoration on his rich blue uniform – a pair of stripes across the lapel that designated him Lord Executive, head of the Lords' Council
His voice was low, but it crackled with latent energy like a barely restrained thunderbolt. His brief interjection had brought the entire table to absolute silence; Rawlings and Temsworth even returned noiselessly to their seats. “We will vote immediately.” He sat back into his chair.
“Yes, Lord Ramsay. All in favor?” The speaker looked positively terrified.
“Aye!” came the response, each lord trying to be heard above the others.
“All opposed?”
Silence.
“The proposal passes. Plan Indigo --”
“His Majesty, the King!”
All persons present immediately rose to their feet. A pair of ornate double doors, unused until now, were thrown open and a number of pages hurried into the room. The throne at the head of the table was quickly adorned with a riot of sumptuous cloths and pillows of all colors and shapes, while a garish green rug was laid down the steps to the dias. A second announcement was made.
“His Majesty, King Exeter the Fourth, House of Paels!”
“Long live the king!” was the unanimous response.
A small, elderly man with a hunched back tottered through the double doors. Four young boys carried the train of his magnificent red robe, which clashed spectacularly with the green rug on the dias. He climbed to the throne, one small step at a time, before finally seating himself with a groan (another young boy had just sprinkled the seat with fresh flower petals). He motioned to the aide who had announced his presence, whispering something in the man's ear.
The king's aide turned to the assembled company. “His Majesty wishes that you be seated.” They sat, except for the speaker.
“Your Majesty, we are both surprised and h-h-honored by your presence today. We --” but the king was whispering to his aide again.
“His Highness requests of Lord Ramsay the subject of today's business.”
Ramsay stood. “Your Highness.” He performed an elegant bow. “We had just approved Plan Indigo, a peacekeeping mission to ---”
“His Highness overrules your decision. Plan Indigo will not go forward.”
An icy silence fell over the room. Ramsay bowed again. “May I respectfully inquire as to His Majesty's reasons for this decision?”
More whispering. “His Majesty . . . does not fancy the name.”
To the careful observer, a small muscle could be seen twitching in Ramsay's jaw. He bowed again before returning to his seat.
“Plan Indigo is rejected.” The speaker tapped his gavel once as the clerks scribbled corrections in their records.
The king got to his feet again. “His Majesty, the King!” The lords and attendants rose to their feet once again as the old monarch tottered out of the room. As quickly as they had been laid out, the pillows and carpets disappeared. As the double doors slammed shut, the only signs that the king had been present at all were a few stray flower petals and a slight scent of lilac.
At a glare from Ramsay, the speaker cracked the gavel one more time. “The Lord's Council is recessed until this afternoon.”
---
“He does it on purpose, Agincourt. I swear, he does it just to spite me!”
Agincourt and Lord Ramsay were walking among the grounds of Eatham palace, the seat of the Lords' Council. Agincourt said nothing; Ramsay's fists were clenched.
“The timing was perfect. With the elections coming up, the Eastern Coalition would have had no other option but a declaration of war. The church is feeling hawkish, and the coalition overconfident – oh, how we could have smashed them! Smashed! Forget Listeria, we could've fragmented the entire coalition irrevocably! I could have won the Eastern front once and for all!”
“Maybe the king has some interest in preserving the coalition.”
“The king. Ha!” Ramsay laughed. “The old fool doesn't have interests, Agincourt. He's senile, a doddering old idiot who would do us all a favor by dying. Long live the king – ha!”
“We still have other options on the council. If we move quickly, we can --”
“No. We've been blocked once in the council – to keep muscling it through makes us look weak. No, this will call for a different approach.”
“The one we discussed earlier?”
“Yes. Now do you see why we kept moving forward even after I got to Handlings? I had a feeling something like this might happen.”
“Shall I start as soon as possible?”
“Yes. How soon can you have the players in place?”
“A week.”
“Do it.”
Agincourt nodded once. “Anything else?”
Ramsay shook his head. “Not for now. Everything waits for war in the East.”
“This could still work to your advantage. When war comes, you could call an emergency meeting of the council and cut Rawlings out of the process entirely.”
Ramsay shook his head. “No, it would be too obvious a move. To discredit him completely I need to carry him and his objections through to the very end. The greater our successes, the more foolish his objections will look.”
“He will get cut out eventually, correct?”
“Of course. But I cut the senate out too soon in February, and it was messy. I won't make that mistake again.”
They crossed a small wooden bridge over a pond. A bullfrog, disturbed by their passage, disappeared into the water with a soft plop.
“The king could still cause trouble, even if the coalition declares war. He is unpredictable.” said Agincourt.
“I know. He is getting increasingly meddlesome. I can only assume what little sense the old man has is finally leaving him.” Ramsay brought his fingers together under his chin, thinking. “Eventually I will have to cut him out as well.”
“The king?”
“Yes. It is the only permanent solution.”
“The Lords will not follow you there, no matter how much you bully them. If you strike down the king, their titles are meaningless.”
“I know. Politics alone will not rid me of Exeter. It will come to the sword.”
“Just like it did with the senate?”
“Yes. Perhaps more so . . . but I can't touch him right now in Oberon. If I can get the Third Army out of the city . . . then there are possibilities. I have a few ideas, but nothing solid yet.”
They passed through a small stand of old oaks, carefully preserved when the land was cleared for the Eatham grounds.
“You realize, of course, that we could hang for this discussion.”
“What discussion?”
Ramsay smiled. “Exactly, Colonel. Exactly.”
Agincourt merely nodded and they continued walking. After a few moments Ramsay began speaking again, this time in a much quieter, introspective tone, almost as if he was speaking to himself.
“Sometimes, Agincourt, I wonder if I am the only one who wants to see a strong Cimbria. We are a strong people, Colonel, but the others do not embrace that strength. Why? Why wouldn't they use it?”
“I have wondered that as well.”
Ramsay continued. “I have beaten my enemies so far, Agincourt, but that doesn't mean I understand them. This worries me. Are they like the king – old and weak? Or like Rawlings – cowardly and afraid? Or perhaps they are like the senate was --” he continued, “-- obsessed with idle gossip, grown lazy on their luxuries and unable to change?”
Agincourt continued matching Lord Ramsay's stride, face carefully devoid of expression.
“There is no argument for weakness in this world, Agincourt. No case for any policy other than absolute strength. Why they cannot understand that I am at heart a patriot, not a traitor?”
“Sometimes the truth is not apparent to all until after the act.”
“Perhaps. What pains me most is that we could be even stronger if they would only work with me. It is my own failing, Colonel, not theirs, that I cannot show them the way. I fail Cimbria when I fail them.”
Agincourt focused his gaze on the ground and cleared his throat before replying. “Your successes far outweigh your failures, Lord. Even you are only human.”
“I suppose so.” They had arrived back at the head of the path. Lord Ramsay brought himself back into the present. “Colonel, I trust you have no further questions?”
“No, Lord Ramsay.”
“Very well. Alert me as soon as preparations are complete. I will announce the inspection tomorrow."
“Very well, Lord Ramsay.”
“Dismissed.”
Lord Ramsay disappeared back inside the palace, while Colonel Agincourt bowed and started down the palace drive to call his coach.
