Interlude: Hari Rashman & The Flood
Notorious troubadour, madrassa bully, and war hero Hari Rashman is one of the most celebrated men of the Grand Mare's modern age. In his famed and much-remembered Rashman Codex, he gives his absolutely true and unredacted accounts of affairs in locales as varied as the wild of the far north to the sweltering jungles of near Kanguedoc. In Hari Rashman & the Flood, Rashman recalls his time as a Chorbaci, or soupsir lieutenant, of the Carnation regiment guarding the Nachivan Legation in mysterious Vaspukaran, and the romance and intrigue into which he was so flung against his will.
It is a truism long accepted by both the diplomatic corps ivy and military corps garden that the men and women of the external Outremare beyond the home island may be defined by our adherence to three qualities. It is by moderation in these facets that we do maintain our dominion vast and so justly gained.
For the men, of course, we are some class of boor, or bore, or boar. A man with an excess of one of these qualities is trouble, a man with an excess of two a menace, and one with all three a promising candidate for the admiralty.
For the better vessels to whom we owe the stability of this ship of state, the women may be organized into three types: rational, romantic, and ruthless. A wife of the state with one of these qualities is wise, with two brilliant, and with all three a walking diplomatic incident.
Sadly, Gassalith Leyla (as the Vaspis refer to her, having confused our name order), our dear ambassador to Vaspukaran, is in proud possession of all three. And I, dear readers, am through a series of disastrous decisions in the ball and bedroom, her most trusted and not entirely willing bodyguard.
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I had not intended to return to Vaspukaran after our jolly romp not five years past, but circumstances of an undisclosed but mostly debt-related nature drove my spontaneous and manly sense of adventure in a direction as far away from my creditors as possible. Returning to the country, I found there to be a palpable and novel energy, mostly exemplified by the fact that the already tedious commoners of this oriental state have become ten times more so in the short interim that I was away.
It has never ceased to impress me that the most meager peasant in the infidel kingdom can have six thousand ways to praise his God in that nasal tongue, but as for figuring out how to please his wife he will leave that for the world to come. It is the kind of place where you can seriously and without mockery argue for the most absurd and utopian heresy where the serf is lord of nations, but the Patriarch writing to his wife that he loves her 'delightful neck', is of such scandalous import that it proves the man's own wife a harlot (to her own husband?). It is perhaps a good thing that the Vaspis are so ignorant of world affairs beyond their borders, or else my summer escapades as a beardless youth in Toussanay in the days after my ejection from the madrassah would have me in hot, perhaps even boiling, water.
And hot water was what I'd find in Nachivan, as it turned out that no sooner than I had been assigned than I found myself in the midst of conspiracy. First there was Ayan Hogelu in Chavay trying to incite war in Danaan, as like all admirals he has never seen a country he did not seek to contrive a reason to invade. Then there was that damned bomb plot we are sure was the cause not of some 'deranged mouflon' but Sword-Altar planting explosives to incite us to a war when we could least afford it, and finally the whole city exploding into chaos and a coup. It was all quite too much for pitiful old me, who had spent much of my time in the eternal city recuperating from a bout of weeping sickness half-blind and drunk on awful yamwine, the old fine pulque of home run dry.
I had indeed hoped that my sickness might get me a medical exemption from participating in history, but Leyla seemed quite insistent not just because there were a terribly great number of masked soldiers swarming around the legation quarter but because of her dear sweet Oshana, some infidel zindiq that had become her latest infatuation. An emancipated woman, I was told, so unlike her countrywomen, and brilliant and smart, with mouth of rosebud, box-tree graceful, a jasmine-breast flirt, a cypress of the east. When I was unmoved by her overwrought Hunanic poetry mostly on account of my incredible hangover she advised me without a dash of amour left on her lovely face that she was well aware of my debt and might advise my creditors of my whereabouts, after which I was suddenly filled with the most profound sympathy for her adoration.
Having no damned idea if this Oshana was even alive, and being very aware I was on my way to an active urban riot in order to preserve an ambassador's fancy, I took her directions and then scrambled a team among the men of the Carnation regiment to dress ourselves down and look as infidel as possible for the sake of blending in. It would not do if we were to be lynched in some fanatic fever, after all: I had quite enough of that in Patranesia.
Bili Bold Mustafa and Gam Levesque I picked mostly for their size to shake off kufars looking for a mark, Three-Eyes Okuk for being our best shot, and Wild Rickan Suratman because I felt if we were being cornered he'd have the best shot to live after gouging eyes off three and killing four with nothing but his teeth. A whiff of powder had already mostly scattered a cheeky pack of juror whelps who needed reminding why they lost the war but I was frankly more concerned about the ten thousand fanatics who had begun to choke the avenues.
Still, I mustered courage mostly by way of drinking more yamwine, prepared my best accent and drew on the inspiring knowledge that my pious creditors had a far better imagination than the crowd on how to kill me. Suitably spirited, I charged bravely into the breach by desperately hoping to blend in while I scrambled to find the most affable local terrorist to help me with directions.
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Sneaking out of the legation quarter was no easy business. The mothguard assigned to guard the Arsenal of Princes' embassy (or as the Vasp call it, the Great Western Coven) was in particularly ill shape, with Sword-Altar testing its defenses and angling for a pogrom. Truth be told, I doubt Leyla would shed a tear if a stray cannon from Fort Karnak should strike true and eliminate the whole pack of scurrilous magicians, though she would surely draft a moving condolence after laughing hard. Moving on I found the Guarded Domains' embassy completely unharmed, which I found both completely characteristic and infuriating as it meant that they will have further excuse to do absolutely nothing at all and continue to ignore everything beyond their borders.
Everywhere, of course, there were fanatics: men and women running about with headbands and inscrutable over-designed placards, often with incredibly ominous symbols. I thought the black eye-prism of the students particularly chilling, and the third-eye headbands of that lot not something I wanted to explore the meaning of in detail. Instead, I turned west and found myself in 'iconoclast' territory, and then found myself at every damned barricade effectively having to answer riddles about my theological leaning, position on God, and general disposition to the matters at hand. By the end of it I had a much stronger appreciation for the fact that we tend to give our commoners enough decent treatment that they learn the respect of silence.
Having neither the patience nor the intelligence to give a clergyman's answer, I responded that I thought sword-altar bastards and bullies and a whole lot of nothing good, and that was apparently enough to let me through. Amused by my own brilliance, and the stupidity of this group, I walked straight through, trying my most solemn gait, and right into the trap laid by the fellows who referred to themselves as Makabam as I was thoroughly and totally arrested by a squad of bulky heretics.
I will defend myself by saying espionage is not my strong-suit. They pointed out we were carrying repeaters, which I suppose was a good point, to which I answered the better to repeat the word of God to Sword-Altar. They seemed to like that so I continued on that I was looking for Esterkezy Oshana and had an important message for her. That was clearly the wrong choice, though, and one of them called us Sword-Altar, which I found patently absurd: I have never met one of the strutting cocks who could present himself as anything but the plumpest rooster in the room. That also amused them, and they searched us, and we admitted at last we were with the Mare, which they had already surmised by my 'accent so nasally we thought you were either a foreigner or extremely ill'. Making clear they had very little interest in fighting us, busy as they were, they asked why I wished to speak to Oshana, who I had been told was of some notoriety in this group, and I told them it was a matter of the utmost importance, and to tell her that L sent me.
That convinced them enough, and soon enough I was being guided through their sectors. The streets of this section of town I find a nightmare to navigate and pity the jurors to put up with it. If it was me I would have simply shelled the whole neighborhood outside-in not out of malice but to strike a blow for explicable urban planning. Sword-Altar seemed more circumspect and more stupid, and so as we walked we passed groups slaughtered under roof tiles, chamberpots or sometimes full cabinets dropped from the roofs and higher floors.
It was a shame, really, because I do know that the Vasp can fight: no gardener who has faced White-Gold can say otherwise, floppy-hat bastards though they were. But there is a real disease in the Vasp Juror, the same that infects the magicians of the Coven: they believe themselves rightful to rule off the basis of nothing but blood or gold. That is not to say we are clean bees in either department, but without a commitment to merit, there will be twenty Sword-Altars for every White-Gold (and let us not forget Sword-Altar is one of the more impressive - I still recall the fear when the war started, and the shock when we melted through Lhazaran like a corpsman through his pulque allowance).
Makabam themselves, as the local coffee-house radicals call themselves, are an intense lot, serious and solemn men with rolled up sleeves and hammers and wild-looking women singing songs of smashing skulls. Not exactly my type of traveling companion. Even as they walked one of their skinny priests tried to convert me, telling me Iconoclasm was the cause of the world, that the souls of all were to be emancipated, all idols torn down everywhere. I was in a foul mood by this point and told him I was actually very fond of idols, in particular nubile ones, and that shut him right up as he circled himself in mad horror. To my astonishment, some of my men actually did engage them in conversation, especially Levesque, which has only my opinion that the Kanguedocis are an untrustworthy lot.
At last, after what appeared like forever navigating endless streets covered with political banners and cheering about some grand victory against the piss-poor lot of glorified bullies called Sword-Altar I finally found myself before Oshana.
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It must be understood that the Ivy Corps, to which Leyla owes loyalty, has something of an infamy for political seduction. Countless diplomatic incidents and coups have been started because our most eligible bachelorettes have drawn some local prince or princess into their arms and formed a political union with the Mare backed by the force of Ayan cannon. It is therefore natural to assume, and I did, that the corpswoman, the wife of the state, is obviously the dominant partner. An idealistic radical is a fine match because it might make Leyla herself feel terribly exciting and transgressive without any of the risk of actually endangering her career, and of course when she ends her time as ambassador she can break it off, maybe smuggle some guns for her lover, and then write a poem about it to launch a campaign to run for the Harem off. A romance to sigh endlessly over for years after, of course, but one in which she is surely in control.
I was very mistaken.
Esterkezy Oshana is a striking rogue with a shock of crimson hair, workman's clothes, pointed boots and scandalous Vasp trousers. She sits backwards on a chair in the remains of a burnt customs house when I come in, rolling the cylinder of a Mare revolver and clicking the hammer, watching me with unrestrained amusement as if I am a jester come to entertain her (after some thought I admit I would not entirely mind the role). Tilting her head lightly to the side, she asks me how Leyla is, and I answer very quickly that she is doing splendidly and expressed some concern about her cypress tree. Expertly inspecting her revolver and loading it with bullets, Oshana does not look up as she tells me to assure her sweet tulip she is doing well, but that the day is not yet won, and that she is pleased her love has lent her support to the deluge come to wash away the old.
I move to object that is not my mission, but she steps out of her chair and calls my men to the table, explaining the situation with a rolled out city map. Great heroes have struck tremendous victories against idolatry in the north and east, and Doshan Castle has fallen by our force of arms, but now the target is Mushad Bridge. I clear my throat and again insist we have no role in this, but Oshana ignores me and steps past me and moves to then explain that Levesque, who she appears to know by name, should take Mustafa to scout the gaps in Mushad's defenses while Okuk and Suratman snipe at their officers of which she has composed a list. And to my incredulity, all listen to her as if she is their commander, and I find myself utterly out of my depth as I begin to realize Leyla's true intention, and why she truly is composed of all three qualities.
Of course the Mare cannot be seen as supporting any faction in Vaspukaran, but if during a sincere ahem, diplomatic mission in a crisis, a few good men and say, a stockpile of arms, find themselves in the right hands, the Harem might look the other way...
Oshana seems to grasp my revelation, for the fox starts to smile, and even puts a cheeky hand high upon my shoulder, squeezing lightly, gazing at me with such sincerity that I almost miss the smug quirk of her lips.
"And you, Rashman, of course, I will have lead a gallant charge, as all men love to do."
It is an outrageous request. Brave soldiers of the Mare do not take orders from infidels, least of all from foreign women with ambitions for some radical mass terror. They stand tall, lean loyally upon the wise advice of the harem, and take orders from the admiralty in stride, proving themselves the most tremendous heroes of the age. They are good and strong and true and independent, hardworking, serious, and scholarly.
Unfortunately, I am none of these things.
"Yes, ma'am."
And that, dear readers, was how, I, poor soupsir Hari Rashman of the Carnation Regiment, found myself swept away by the flood in a country half a world away...
A/N: Figured I'd get out something fun as I can't finish the update till the weekend
