Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Keane deserved sanction but not the destruction of his life; I argued for clemency.

It was only when you spoke up in favour of clemency that you learned you were not alone in the opinion. Cunaris, perhaps harbouring some affection for his disgraced subordinate, proved himself easy to convince to your side of the argument.

The third member of the tribunal, the man from Grenadier Square, was resistant at first, but once faced with the opposition of a Duke of the Unified Kingdom, his objections faltered. The decision for clemency had been a unanimous one.

Ultimately, the decision was made to have Keane cashiered; his commission revoked without recompense, his sword broken, and his decorations and commendations ordered to be destroyed. His reputation in tatters, he returned to Tierra aboard the first ship of the spring with nothing to show for a life of soldiering but an all-encompassing, permanent disgrace.

Even so, it had been clemency; for the crime of deserting one's men before the enemy should have, by all means, brought harsher punishment. You had, in the end, done him a mercy.

Not that you have any doubt Keane himself would think otherwise.

-​

That summer found you back at the head of your men as the King's Army faced a new Antari force, what would turn out to be the final great effort of what remained of the League Congress's war faction.

The new army was a shadow of the last Antari host to march south. It had none of the disciplined line infantry that Khorobirit alone had raised and equipped, its artillery was non-existent, its Hussars were newly raised and ill-mounted, and it possessed only the most meagre complement of light cavalry.

Had it come to open battle, the contest between this last gasp and the veteran and victory-flushed regiments of the King's Army could have only concluded one way.

It had not.

Instead, the Duke of Havenport had ordered your dragoons north - into the path of the enemy host. Through the hottest days of the year, you had ranged before the path of the approaching enemy force as it made its ponderous way south, burning crops, poisoning wells, burning bridges, and watching from afar as the Antari lost more and more men to disease, desertion, and starvation with every passing day.

It was a method of waging war that would have been dismissed as dishonourable, cowardly, and unthinkable, not so long ago. It seems that the past decade of war has taught the King's Army better.

Within six weeks, what was left of the League Congress's last great army was retreating north, a straggling mob of wretched fugitives with hollow bellies and sunken eyes, defeated without firing a single shot in anger.

The Antari sent their first peace envoys the following month. They continued coming the year that followed, even as the King's Army continued to advance northwards. You were camped not two hundred kilometres from the walls of Octobirit itself when the news finally came: a treaty had been signed, and for the first time in a dozen years, there was to be peace between Tierra and Antar.

As the days once again grew shorter and colder, you and your dragoons slowly made your way back to Kharangia. You had a great deal of time to think then, to consider the years you had spent at war and your rise through the ranks of the King's Army.

There was, of course, opportunity to rise yet further still.

Keane's disgrace had left his lieutenant-colonel's commission vacant. Now that you had the requisite seniority to make yourself eligible for further advancement, only the cost of the commission itself served as any obstacle to your advancement.

However, with the war at an end, there would be no guarantee that your promotion would prove of any real worth; what difference did that single step up in rank mean for the soldier of an army at peace, an army that might find itself without great need of you anyway? Was that difference enough to be worth spending the 1500 crown you would need to attain it?

[ ] Even in peacetime, I supposed I would be better off as a lieutenant-colonel than a major. (-1,500 Wealth)
[ ] I bought the promotion; it would be a great help should Tierra find itself at war in the future. (-1,500 Wealth)
[ ] I decided that there were better ways to spend my money.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Even in peacetime, I supposed I would be better off as a lieutenant-colonel than a major.

To purchase a new commission had not been the most frugal use of your funds, true, but that did not mean such a course of action was without merit.

Even with Tierra at peace, there would be benefits to a higher rank, not least of all the fact that you would be receiving a greater rate of pay, the power that would come from being the second-most senior officer in your regiment, and greater consideration from your superiors and inferiors within the King's Army alike.

As you worked your way south, such arguments seemed increasingly persuasive. By the time you reached Kharangia, you had resolved yourself fully.

With both Havenport and Cunaris's headquarters once again located within the walls of Kharangia, it had been a simple enough task for you to request permission to purchase a lieutenant-colonel's commission in person.

Your regimental commander was not much pleased with the notion, but he did not have much choice; there were no other candidates to fill Keane's place. So, you went through the same old procedure—the sword to the throat, the swearing of the oaths, the presentation of the insignia—and walked out of Cunaris's office a lieutenant-colonel.

That had been a month ago.

Now, you wait on the stone of Kharangia's docks as the autumn wind tugs against your greatcoat, waiting for your belongings to be loaded aboard the ship that will take you to Aetoria to take up your father's title before the assembled Cortes, the ship that will take you back to the homeland which you have not seen for so many years.

Of all those whom you fought beside in your years in Antar, few remain. The bulk of your command took ship for Fernandescourt two weeks ago. Cunaris had gone with them. Havenport sailed a week after that, departing with the King and his entourage, Lord Cassius and Countess Welles among them. You remained behind only to make final arrangements for your men as they departed. Of the tens of thousands of King's soldiers who had once trod the soil of Antar underneath their boots, you are almost the last to remain.

Almost.

"Castleton?" comes a voice from your left. "Did you hear me?"

Cazarosta had also remained behind to see to the last affairs of his own command. Whether by accident or design, the two of you have found yourselves waiting on the same quay at the same time for your horses to be loaded aboard your respective ships.

"I beg pardon?" you reply, having been too lost in thought to hear the deathborn's question.

"Where will you go?" the other dragoon says—repeats, you suppose—without a hint of annoyance. "The war is over. I must assume you have some plan of action for the future."

That is a question that throws you back into self-reflection. For more than a decade, the war has been your life. What you plan to do with it now that it is finally, blessedly over with is something you have given no small amount of thought to.

Given the number of options available, we'll use approval voting for this choice. Vote for as many motivations as you wish, and the one with the most votes wins.

Click to shrink...

[ ] "I shall go home; I have an estate to put to rights."
[ ] "I shall be inheriting a seat on the Cortes; that shall keep me busy."
[ ] "No doubt, I shall be able to find some excitement."
[ ] "I must see to my family's debts, first and foremost."
[ ] "I would rather put excitement behind me."
[ ] "I do rather like soldiering; perhaps I shall persist in it."
[ ] "Plans can wait; it will be enough just to see my family again."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I shall be inheriting a seat on the Cortes; that shall keep me busy."

"Politics?" Cazarosta's mouth resolves into a grim little smile, half scepticism, and half amusement. "You mean to maintain a manse and household in Aetoria? Harangue your fellows over fine wines and Takaran beefsteak? That sounds to me like an expensive proposition."

The deathborn has a point. To become a power in the Cortes, it is required of a man to do more than merely keep abreast of events and vote every so often. One must also present a front of strength and affluence to one's enemies, as well as cultivate the approval and affection of potential allies. If you wish to exert any political influence beyond the single vote you shall soon inherit, you shall have to spend no small amount of money to do it.

You nod agreeably. "Yes, it would be rather expensive, but it could also be most profitable if one does not think of profit in terms of coin."

The other officer's eyebrow rises. "You mean to make your mark, then?"

"I mean to change Tierra for the better," you reply, your words made strong by conviction. "Now that we have brought this war to an acceptable conclusion, we may turn a hand to rebuilding what has been lost over these twelve years. I mean not to restore things to the state that they were, but to remake ourselves stronger, more resilient, better."

You turn to the scarred deathborn, your eyes blazing so brightly that you might almost see the reflected light in his. "If I leave Tierra a greater kingdom than it was, is that not profit?"

Cazarosta's smile widens; there is no ambiguity to it now. "Yes," he replies. "It is."

Time passes wordlessly between you. The noise of the quays, groans of loaded hulls, and the creak of port cranes blot out any pretension at silence the moment might have had, yet even those sounds fade into mere background noise.

"What about you?" you finally manage to ask, breaking the not-quite-silence before it has the chance to lapse into awkwardness. "Surely, you must have plans as well."

Having groped blindly for a subject, you realise that there is a genuine curiosity behind it. What does Cazarosta mean to do now that the war is over? He has no estates of his own, no family. As a deathborn-bastard, he has little prospects for marriage and none at all in politics or finance.

"I thought the answer to that question would have appeared obvious," the other officer replies without hesitation. "I mean to stay in the army."

[ ] "Why, that is a marvellous idea!"
[ ] "Why would you want to do that?"
[ ] "I did not think Cunaris so favourably disposed to keeping you in his regiment."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Why, that is a marvellous idea!"
To keep things moving, I'll select the choice that scores us points with Cazarosta.

Click to shrink...

Cazarosta's lips pull taut into a thin slash of a smile. "You humour me, sir," he replies, his voice tinged with the barest hint of ice.

You shake your head vehemently. "I only speak the truth, sir!" you exclaim, loud enough to turn the head of more than one passerby. "You are a first-class fighting officer and a credit to the service. No man could deny that!"

Cazarosta frowns. "On the contrary, I am an anomaly: a deathborn-bastard whom gentlemen of the blood are required by the niceties of military discipline to call 'sir' and 'brother officer.' Only the exigencies of war have allowed me to justify my place with some small demonstrations of competence. Now that we are at peace, that avenue is closed to me."

"Then you must prove yourself in some other way," you answer with the most encouraging tone you can muster.

The other officer nods. "I mean to," he replies, his voice quavering with the barest hint of what almost seems like a momentary uncertainty. "If the Saints will it, I shall."

"And if they do not?"

Before Cazarosta can offer any answer, you are made aware of the approach of three figures, all on horseback, all women, the iron-shod hooves of their ponies beating a sedate rhythm against the cobbles as they make their way towards you.

Two of the women are maids. Their drab and uniform outfits make that almost plain. The third is anything but, clad in a sleek riding habit of deep blue, her dark curls bound back by a bonnet of whitest silk, her cherry lips made wicked by an impish smile.

"Good day, Alaric," Lady Katarina says by way of greeting as she slips herself free from her saddle.

Feelings of joy and anger clash within your mind. Two and a half years without a single meeting, without even a single letter. Is that half an eternity which she has allowed your heart to languish in solitude simply to be dismissed with a bare 'good day'? You feel your teeth grit in frustration.

Then, in the space of an instant, she is but a step away from you, close enough for you to look deep into her wide blue eyes, and you can no more hold onto your anger than you might grasp a handful of air. "I am happy to see you well," she murmurs as she allows you to kiss her hand, her words kept sedated by propriety, but her look makes it clear that it is propriety alone which stops her from saying more.

You smile back sedately, even though your heart might well be fit to burst. "It is good to see you as well, madam," you reply.

Yet Lady Katarina has already turned away from you, towards Cazarosta.

"And it is good to see you as well, brother."

You suppose you must have made some sudden involuntary reaction to that, likely because the second after, the scarred deathborn's eyes narrow. He turns to his 'sister' with a look of puzzlement.

"You did not tell him?" he asks.

The dark-haired noblewoman shakes her head, dismissing the question—dismissing her years of deception—as if it were nothing more than a rotten fruit. "I did not see the need to tell him."

"I do hope you mean to tell him now," he replies, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in—in what? Frustration? Exasperation? Anger?

Katarina smiles, not her normal impish grin but an uneasy smirk. "So much concern for the elucidation of your fellow man, Caius? You had not always held so much consideration in you?"

The deathborn's frown deepens. "Seeing as you have revealed the crucial part of the matter, it would only seem natural that you were planning on explaining the matter to him in full."

"Yes, in full, if you would please," you reply, rather finished with being discussed as if you were not present before them.

For a moment, Cazarosta opens his mouth as if to reply, yet for once in his life, he seems hesitant. It is Lady Katarina who speaks first. "How much do you know of the state of affairs in the Earl of Leoniscourt's household after the…". Her eyes flit to the side, to her 'brother.' "…events following Caius's birth?"

You shake your head. The matter was far before your time. "I must confess a great deal of ignorance regarding the matter. All I remember is that the Earl remarried but was never able to sire a legitimate male heir, only a…".

Only a daughter.

The Royal Intelligence officer before you dips into a deep, courtly curtsey as if she were being presented at court, her impish grin freshly returned to her delicate features. "Lady Katarina d'al Cazarosta, at your service."

Lady Katarina d'al Cazarosta
By Sangiin​

[ ] "Why did you not tell me?"
[ ] "Why, of course, I expected this!"
[ ] "You could have told me, Cazarosta."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "Why, of course, I expected this!"
Again, I'll choose the option that scores us points with Cazarosta - the female Cazarosta.

Click to shrink...

Lady Katarina's eyebrow rises. "Did you?" she asks sceptically.

You nod. "I did. I rather thought all the pieces fit together quite well," you reply confidently. "I would even cite the fact that the two of you share a physickal resemblance, were it not for the fact that any such similarity would clearly have been a coincidence."

Cazarosta makes no reply, but the dark-haired noblewoman beside him nods. "I must suppose that one also must possess the insight to know why I felt the need to hide what I did?" she asks with a flash of her wicked grin. "Aside from the normal exigencies of my professional circumstances, of course."

You nod. Tierran inheritance law, in all of its intolerably complex glory, had been hammered into your head early and often; it was the one thing no aristocratic education could ignore, the one thing that maintained the continuity of the Unified Kingdom's baneblooded lines, supervising the title from father to son, or if no sons were available, father to daughter…

…or rather, to the daughter's husband.

With that in mind, it is no wonder that Lady Katarina had been so anxious to protect her identity. She was the key to the vast riches of Leoniscourt: the monopolies, the hereditary offices, the trade tariffs worth twenty thousand crown a year. Had the army, with its vast supply of impoverished, unmarried banebloods known…

…had you known.

"My lady must believe me—" you blurt out. Does she think you were after her for her money? Saints be damned, you mustn't ever let her think that. "Even after I had gained some inkling of your family's fortune, I never thought to—"

Katarina shakes her head, the corners of her mouth curled into the softest of smiles. "I know, Alaric," she replies, voice barely above a whisper. "I know."

Another thought comes to mind. "If this deception was to protect you whilst among the officers of the King's Army, does that mean…?"

Lady Katarina nods. "It does. With my mission here in Antar having culminated in the war's successful conclusion, Caius and I shall return to Leoniscourt on the same ship. Afterwards, I shall be returning to Aetoria to resume my duties." She flashes you yet another hint of a smile. "I shall send you the address to my townhouse in the capital when I am once again in residence, should you wish to call upon me."

You find your curiosity getting the better of you. "Your mission?" Surely with the war over, there would be no point in keeping the great scheme in which you had occasionally been involved a secret for any longer.

"My mission," the Royal Intelligence officer echoes, "was to engineer the destruction of Prince Khorobirit, his house, his political support, and his army. This was done by goading him into rash action through the one avenue of attack he could not ignore."

You do not say a word, but the silence that follows forms the question without ambiguity: how?

"Khorobirit was unassailable behind his army," Lady Katarina begins again, her voice barely above a whisper, "but that did not mean we could not strike at his heart. For two years, we manoeuvred the elements of our plan into motion, drawing Prince Khorobirit further and further south, further away from his initial headquarters, the fortress of Januszkovil."

The pieces begin to fall into place in your mind. If Royal Intelligence sought to pull Khorobirit away, then—

"What was at Januszkovil?"

"Khorobirit's family," the dark-haired noblewoman replies, her expression carefully blank. "His wife, his daughter, and a small army of bodyguards to keep them safe. While the King's division moved south, I sent a combined force of grenadiers and lancers to strike the fortress."

"What happened then?" you ask, the dread already crawling up your spine as you realise you are nearly certain you already know the answer.

"We stormed the fortress at sunset," Lady Katarina replies, her blue eyes suddenly shallow and dull. "Lady Aleksandra—Khorobirit's daughter—she managed to escape with a handful of bodyguards. Princess Anna—Khorobirit's wife—she was trapped within the keep with the remnants of the garrison, she…". The dark-haired noblewoman pauses for a moment before expelling the next words from her body as if they were a long sigh. "…she fought to the last."

The sounds of the port are drowned out by silence now as the significance of what you have just heard turns about in your mind.

"When Prince Khorobirit learned of his wife's death, they say he became consumed with grief and rage," Lady Katarina continues. "That was when he decided to commit to an immediate attack upon what he thought was Havenport's isolated division at Kharangia. The rest…"

The rest, you know. You saw what had happened when Prince Khorobirit's army was thrown against the King's Army and its carefully prepared trap on the River Kharan. You took part in the victory; what you had thought to be your victory - a victory that had been bought by the murder of a woman who was only guilty of being loved by the wrong man.

[ ] "It was a victory well won by Royal Intelligence and the King's Army both."
[ ] "It was necessary to ensure our victory; I have no right to condemn it."
[ ] "I cannot say I approve of such ruthless measures."
[ ] "How could there be any justification for such barbarity?"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "It was necessary to ensure our victory; I have no right to condemn it."

Lady Katarina nods. "My thoughts exactly," she replies softly. "It was the only viable option we had available."

You nod back. "If your only options were to carry through or allow our army to persist in its hopeless position and await its annihilation at the hands of the enemy, then I, for one, cannot fault your choice." You pause as you find the corner of your mouth flickering into something of a grin. "In fact, I rather think that means I owe you my life."

If Cazarosta has overheard your exchange, he gives no sign of it, yet you cannot help but notice the slightest shadow of a grin gracing his lips as he leans in to whisper some quiet words into his sister's ear.

Lady Katarina listens, then nods. "Our ship is soon to embark," she announces. She steps close. "Saints go with you, Alaric," she whispers by way of farewell, her breath warm against your neck. "I must hope we are to see each other again soon."

You watch them as they make their way down the quay to their waiting ship, ponies and maids in tow.

Apart, you had always found some level of similarity betwixt the two; a shared sense of determination, a brutal sense of practicality. However, now that you see them together, you cannot help but notice how the scarred dragoon and the Royal Intelligence operative complement each other in so many ways as they direct the loading of Lady Katarina's ponies together.

There is a closeness between them, of the sort difficult to find even between siblings linked by blood. That much is obvious, even to one as unschooled in the subject of the human condition as you.

It is a notion that can only add urgency to the anxiety now plaguing your thoughts. For years, you had behaved before them as if they were separate entities, unknown to each other. To learn at this late hour that they had been joined by so close a personal partnership is fit to turn all of your assumptions regarding Cazarosta and Lady Katarina upside-down.

How must you approach them in the future, knowing what you do now?

[X] I only hope that Cazarosta does not take issue with my pursuit of Lady Katarina. (Literally the only option available)

To say that your current position is sensitive would be an understatement on a grand scale.

True, Cazarosta is your friend. True, you have done nothing to provoke any suspicion as to your character on his part, but that does not mean that he is guaranteed to look kindly upon your efforts to court Lady Katarina. The conceit of the jealously overprotective older brother may be the sort of thing one would find in a bad opera or cheap three-volume novel, but it is a trope built upon some grain of truth.

You have little doubt that any elder brother possessed of even the smallest hint of affection for a sister set to inherit a great deal of money would prove himself wary of prospective suitors, no matter how friendly. Cazarosta, you could easily imagine being more paranoid than most.

If you plan on persisting in your courtship of Lady Katarina, you shall have to proceed with caution, lest you find her brother turning from a friend into a most dangerous enemy.

A shout from the docks brings your mind to more immediate concerns. Your ship is about to leave, and it would likely be best if you were on board when it did.

It is but the work of a few moments to proceed down the quay and up the walk to your waiting vessel, yet your short passage seems to stretch into an eternity, the beat of your hobnailed boots against the stone slowing as you take your last steps upon Antari soil.

Only when your feet plant themselves firmly upon the ship's deck and your shadow is swallowed up by the shade of the spreading sailcloth overhead does time seem to return to normal.

You make your way to the quarterdeck just in time to see the last line cast off. There you remain as your ship pulls away from its anchorage. There you remain for hours yet, as you watch the still-shattered walls of Kharangia fading into the distance and the land that you fought upon and bled upon for so long falling away in your wake.

Finally, as the day begins to dim and the cold night winds begin to rise, you head below deck. You must see your horse fed and eat supper yourself. You must check that your baggage is stored and that your cabin is to your liking.

Meanwhile, your ship continues south and east, carrying you towards the embrace of the encroaching, uncertain darkness.

And to home.

 

[Rogue Attican]

PROLOGUE
Wherein the CAVALRY OFFICER, newly returned from the WAR IN ANTAR, takes up his SEAT as a LORD of the TIERRAN CORTES.​

"Lord Alaric d'al Castleton, heir to the Barony of Reddingfield, presents himself before the King's majesty!"

You step forward as the herald's booming announcement echoes off the stone walls of the Cortes chamber, the long train of your investiture robes dragging against the plush carpet with every step. You feel the gaze of your soon-to-be peers fall upon you from all directions, the heat of their attention boring through the thick fur mantle on your shoulders. Everything chafes. Everything itches. With each step, you deplore the encumbrance of your robes even more, even as you long for the absent weight of your sabre and pistols.

Yet you keep steady, eyes front, shoulders back. You force yourself to walk as if the eyes of the King Himself are upon you because they are.

There He is, at the far end of the chamber: a thin, auburn-haired figure wrapped in the mass of His court robes. His eyes are weary, and His face is old for a man not yet thirty, lined prematurely by the stresses of war and rule. Still, He sits proudly atop the throne his ancestors had carved from stone, steel, and dark Butean wood, tired eyes following as you approach.

The etiquette for approaching a King of Tierra was drilled into you as a child, and through the long years of turmoil in between, your tutor's voice comes to you loud and clear, like yesterday's lesson: stop precisely twelve paces before the dais, bow. Three paces forward, bow again. Three more, kneel, and await the King's reply.

But it is not the King who moves first. Instead, a dour-faced man in the uniform of a lieutenant colonel of the Grenadiers steps out from the shadow of the throne. In his hands, he carries a gigantic two-handed sword, larger even than those used by the Knights of the Red, its blade flickering with the faint tracery of baneruned steel. You've seen this sword before, though only in engravings and paintings: Pactmaker, the Tierran sword of state.

From the corner of your eye, the Grenadier fixes you with a hard look as he sets the sword before his King. You and Lieutenant Colonel Lefebvre have a history, and it is not an altogether pleasant one. He still owes you a great number of explanations.

But now is not the time. That is not what you're here for.

The Grenadier steps back. The King rises, taking up the sword with which Edwin the Strong wrought the Unified Kingdom more than a century ago. With solemn, practised grace, he moves forward. In the silence, even his soft footfalls upon the rich carpet seem to echo. He stops, little more than an arm's length away, and with a strong, clear voice, he utters the words which he must have by now said a hundred times before.

"I, Miguel, of the house of Rendower, Duke of Aetoria, and King of Tierra, do confirm before those assembled here, the rights of Lord Alaric of the house of Castleton to the barony of Reddingfield. I hereby pledge all my power to the preservation of his freedoms, his properties, and his titles. I swear to accept his counsel in the governance of the realm. I swear to be his champion in peace and his brother in war. This, I swear on behalf of myself and the rightful heirs of my bloodline. This I swear by the Saints and my Sacred Honour."

Slowly, carefully, he turns the Pactmaker in his hands, reversing the blade until its hilt hovers just a hand's breadth from your face.

"Upon this oath, swear your loyalty to me," he continues, with all the ominous ceremony the occasion deserves, "or with this blade, strike me down."

Your fingers reach out, brushing the silver inlay of Pactmaker's pommel…

"I, Alaric of the house of Castleton, do hereby swear fealty to Miguel of the house of Rendower and acknowledge him as my liege and rightful King of Tierra." The oft-rehearsed words come to you readily, flowing from your lips as easily as breath. "I hereby pledge all of my power to the defence of his realm, the enforcement of his laws, and the protection of his honour. I swear to offer him wise counsel in the governance of the realm. I swear to be his brother in peace and his champion in war. This, I swear to him and all the rightful heirs of his bloodline. This, I swear, before all assembled here and with his life in my hands. This I swear, by the Saints and my Sacred Honour."

Pactmaker draws away as your voice echoes against the stone. The King steps back.

"Then, by my right as sovereign and the authority vested in me by this Cortes, I name you Baron of Reddingfield, as your father was before you," he declares, loud enough for all to hear. "Rise, Lord Reddingfield, and take your rightful place among your peers."

You rise to a round of polite but enthusiastic applause. Some nod approvingly from the high galleries. Your service in Antar made you a name among the officers of the King's Army, but it's a surprise to see something of the lustre of your exploits reach even to the very Cortes chamber.

They're still clapping as you ascend the steps to the benches and take your place among the Lords of the Cortes.

You look for the banner of the Duke of Wulfram hanging from the gallery, then move to join your fellow Wulframite lords sitting in its shadow. There are perhaps three dozen of them here today, some old and grey, others barely out of boyhood. Some offer to shake your hand as you take your place. Others make space on the benches and motion for you to sit down.

You take your seat just in time for the King to lay Pactmaker across His lap. The booming voice of the sergeant-at-arms echoes across the stone, calling the chamber to order.

At last, the business of governance begins. Quorum is obtained, and grievances are aired. The issues facing the chamber at first are minor ones: the placement of a fence, the ownership of a road, petty squabbles made significant only by the noble blood of those entangled in them.

Yet even so, you pay close attention to the proceedings, even as some of the lords around you seem to nod off or pursue their own conversations with their neighbours. You note carefully how a Lord of the Cortes must present a motion before the chamber, how he must never address another member by name, only by title, how he must ask the King's permission to speak, and how the King, bound by the strictures of his own office, cannot but give it.

In truth, the complicated procedure of the Cortes makes for more interesting watching than the debates themselves.

You had not imagined the Cortes to be a conjunction of goodwill and noble intentions. No sensible man who has gone through what you have could possibly think that. But you still believed there was a certain grandeur in it. Was the Cortes not the body which governed the Unified Kingdom? Did it not control the wealth of the country and bend sovereigns to its will? Did the levers of power not reside in this very chamber?

It is a disappointment, to be sure. Instead of finding the great power brokers of the realm, you find only men no better than you in an atmosphere more like a fish market or a cafe than a solemn chamber of state.

It is then, as you begin to come to terms with the reality of your new peers, that the burble of conversation suddenly halts. The chamber falls silent as a youngish, broad-shouldered man in a fashionably cut frock coat steps out from your section of the benches. He proceeds down the aisle as those still standing take their seats. With the requisite bow, he turns to the throne.

"Your Majesty. His Grace, the Duke of Wulfram, requests permission to address the chamber."

So this is Young Wulfram, the son of the man who died at Blogia. The man who, by all accounts, has become one of the most powerful and controversial voices in the Cortes. This, at least, will be worth paying attention to.

The King nods his assent. Wulfram turns to face the whole chamber, his voice a low tenor with the gravitas of a practised orator.

"One would like to open on a note of thanksgiving, for there are those in this chamber to whom much is owed. In the long years in which this realm has been at war, it has become easy to forget the truly extraordinary scale of the exertions of those who have taken up arms in defence of Crown and Kingdom. When war becomes commonplace, it cheapens even the most brilliant acts of courage in the eyes of those who do not live the terror of battle for themselves. When the men who perform such acts are forgotten, then we are all cheapened."

He turns as he speaks, chest out, shoulders back, his voice broadcasting itself like a farmer with a handful of seeds.

"Thus, let us not forget that there are those in this very chamber who have performed prodigies in the face of the King's enemies, those who have endured cold and death to be restored to us once more. Let us recognise Viscount Palliser, whose charge broke Khorobirit's army. Let us recognise the Dukes of Havenport and Cunaris, who cannot be here with us on this day. Let us recognise the Viscount Weir, the Earl of Castermaine, Viscount Hugh, and Baron Matheson. Let us recognise the newest addition to this chamber, the gallant Baron Reddingfield, who led the storm of Kharangia. Let us recognise them all, and all of those who have fallen on foreign shores, lest we forget the sacrifices they made."

A fresh wave of applause washes over the chamber. You see Palliser—made a Viscount for his role at the Second Battle of Kharangia—incline his head in appreciation. Castermaine seems to turn an even deeper shade of red than normal.

[ ] I think I rather enjoy being recognised like this.
[ ] Such compliments will mean little to the dead.
[ ] I wonder what Wulfram is getting at, opening his address like this.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Such compliments will mean little to the dead.

Perhaps you ought to be flattered by such sentiments, but you know it is not you and those like you who best deserve to be the subject of such flattery. Those men lie dead in Antar, their bones still strewn on the field of Blogia or burned to char on a thousand different funerary piles. You knew such men; some had been your friends, your brothers. What would one who has never seen the slaughter of battle know of sacrifice?

And yet Wulfram is not yet finished.

"But now, our realm is restored to peace," Wulfram continues once the applause fades enough for him to be heard. "Would it not be only just and fitting for our soldiers and sailors to return to their interrupted lives and enjoy the prosperity and tranquillity they have fought and bled for?"

There's a murmur of approval - not just from the Wulframite benches but all around the chamber. The Duke nods with them. "Yet instead, they return to find the kingdom on the brink of ruin! They find the shops of their fathers bankrupt, the shawls of their mothers threadbare, and the bellies of their children empty!" Wulfram's voice grows in pitch, even as the murmurs of agreement swell. "The good people of this realm have been driven to destitution by the taxes the Exchequer has levied these past ten years! Taxes which impoverish our tenants and drive honest men to brigandage for want of food! Taxes have strangled our market towns and trading houses! Taxes contrived to pay for a war that is now over!"

The murmurs have become a dull roar. Many cheer and brandish their rolled-up papers in approval. The King sits stone-faced. Wulfram may not have called out the man upon the throne by name, but he didn't have to; it was the King's decision to retaliate so boldly against Antar's declaration of war; it was the King's decision to fight that war to the finish and to pay for it with emergency levies and foreign loans when the kingdom's treasury ran empty. You all know whom Wulfram means to blame.

"For the sake of our much-abused commons, I call upon His Majesty's Government to repeal these taxes!" the Duke continues, all but shouting over the roar of voices. "I call upon the Exchequer to disband our superfluous army, draw down our oversized fleets, and deliver us a budget that does not rely upon the impoverishment of our people to keep this kingdom from bankruptcy! And if the right honourable Chancellor of the Exchequer cannot do this most elementary thing, then I call upon His Majesty to find someone who can!"

The chamber explodes in a renewed rush of voices, cries of approval warring with roaring, indignant shouts of "Shame! Shame!" The King looks on, his hand white-knuckled around Pactmaker's hilt. Not far away, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Earl of Weathern sits in tight-lipped fury.

You recognise some of the men shouting their disapproval the loudest, men you served with in Antar, some even in their regimental uniforms. Perhaps you ought to join them. Even if everything Wulfram said is true, Tierra is in need of strong defences more than ever. Victory over Antar has made Tierra a potential Great Power and a target for those in Kian or Takara who may see it as a threat to the primacy of their own countries. The Unified Kingdom cannot afford to be defenceless.

And yet, if everything Wulfram said is true, then Tierra's survival might depend just as much upon an immediate end to wartime taxation. How could the people be depended upon to defend a government which has done nothing but impoverish them? What purpose would it serve to commission warships and cannons if nobody is willing to man them?

[ ] To be honest, I am of two minds regarding the matter.
[ ] In truth, I don't give a damn about all this.
[ ] Wulfram is mistaken; we must maintain our defences, regardless of the difficulty.
[ ] The Duke of Wulfram is right. The war taxes must end, whatever the cost.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] To be honest, I am of two minds regarding the matter.

There is reason to Wulfram's points, but perhaps those who oppose him aren't so wrong in believing that he goes too far. Perhaps there's some middle ground to be trod, some compromise amenable to all parties.

Or perhaps you're merely ignorant of the realities outside the Cortes chamber, you who have been in Aetoria only a few weeks and who had been in distant Antar for years beforehand. If you are to take a side, then you shall have to do so based on knowledge that you do not yet possess. Perhaps once you've seen the country for yourself and examined the veracity of the Duke of Wulfram's rhetoric, you'll be able to decide for yourself.

Until then, you remain silent and allow yourself to be drowned out by the voices of other men.

The debate goes on. Other men answer Wulfram's address, only to be answered in return, stroke, and counterstroke, each compelling the other like a pair of fixed gearwheels, turning and going nowhere.

An hour passes, then two. Arguments and rebuttals subside into the indistinct buzzing of voices. Those around you droop in their seats. Some doze off entirely. You're not sure you can blame them: no resolutions are passed, no motions are carried, and no votes are called. The Chamber does not progress - it dances.

In the end, the session is adjourned more out of sheer exhaustion than any sort of accomplishment.

It's a relief to stand up again and stretch your limbs. It's all you can do to avoid a most indecorous sigh of relief when your backbone realigns itself betwixt your shoulders. Still in your robes, you join the throng of your fellow Lords as they file out of the doors leading to the antechamber and beyond, to the Lords' Course.

Yet not long after you pass the pair of Grenadiers at the antechamber doors, you find yourself approached by a pair of slim, elegant men, the brightness of their dress uniforms setting them off against the mass of sombre black frock coats. You recognise them both. Not long ago, they were your brothers-in-arms.

"Lord Reddingfield, what a pleasure it is to see you here!" greets the older man in the orange coat of the infantry as he offers you his hand. "My congratulations on your investiture." You shake it without hesitation.

The last you saw Viscount Hugh, he was at the head of a battalion of foot in Antar. You got along well enough in Antar, but now that you're once again home, you cannot help but feel a silent form of kinship with the man, a bond of campaigns shared and common hardships remembered.

The other fellow wears the tightly trousered white and sky-blue rig of the White Rose Lancers, and he is no different. Sir Louis-Auguste d'al Palliser commanded the Cavalry Brigade at the decisive Second Battle of Kharangia at the young age of twenty-six. For his role in that victory, he was made Viscount Palliser, a victory title that gives him no estates but the right to sit on the Cortes.

"Very fine t'see you here, very fine," he drawls in a clipped, dandyish accent as he too shakes your hand. "Plenty of time now for politics, I suppose, seeing's we's all on half-pay and all, wot?"

"Perhaps, but first, I must put my estate to rights," you reply.

"Of course; of course, but y'mean t'stay in Aetoria for the evening, eh?" Palliser asks genially. "I've got a townhouse off Saint Octavia's Park, holding a dinner there tonight, informal thing, no ladies, all old Antar men, like ourselves. Be honoured if you'd come. There'll be other Dragoons there. Two half-pay captains; Blaylock and Sandoral. They was yours, weren't they?"

You give it a thought. The promise of familiar faces and familiar subjects is a tempting one. The war was a terrible ordeal, yet as soon as it ended, some dark part of you started yearning for it again. You must admit, the chance to talk about it with old comrades and acquaintances is—

"I beg pardon. I pray I am not interrupting."

You turn to the source of this new voice, somewhat annoyed at having your thoughts so suddenly interrupted. That's when you find yourself face-to-face with the Duke of Wulfram.

Lord Hugh inclines his head politely. "Your Grace, how unexpected."

"I assure you, I shan't detain you for long," Wulfram says genially. "I merely wished to offer my congratulations to the newest Lord of the Cortes."

He turns to you. "Welcome, Lord Reddingfield. The chamber is made better for having one in it."

You say the only thing one can say when complimented by a Duke of the Unified Kingdom: "Thank you, Your Grace."

"I've also come to offer an invitation," Wulfram continues. "I have a dinner engagement at the Rendower Club this evening. I'd be quite pleased if you could join us."

An invitation for dinner with the Duke of Wulfram at his private club would certainly be an honour. But what of Palliser and Hugh? What of old comrades and the brotherhood of war? One cannot very well be in two places at once. And besides, what reason would Wulfram have to invite you to such a thing? You haven't even spoken in the chamber. What reason could he have to offer you an invitation?

"I beg your pardon. What is the Rendower Club?" you ask.

"The Rendower?" Palliser seems genuinely surprised that you haven't heard of it. "Dear fellow, the Rendower ain't but the oldest club in Aetoria - and the most prestigious. Y'need royal blood just to be considered for entry." He seems about to say something else but evidently thinks better of it.

"It's not quite as exclusive as it sounds," Wulfram replies with a twitch of a smile. "Practically every noble house in the Duchy of Aetoria has some Rendower blood in them. The House of Rendower is nothing if not prolific. Still, we have an excellent wine cellar and maintain a very fine chef trained all the way in H'onneshanne."

Dinner at the oldest club in the city, with food prepared by a genuine Kian chef. That certainly carries an appeal with it, and if the Rendower truly is as exclusive as Palliser seems to think it is, then you would be rubbing shoulders with some of the most powerful men in the Unified Kingdom.

Wulfram turns to Palliser. "You are welcome to return as well, my lord, should you wish."

Palliser shakes his head. "I fear I've already an engagement," he admits. "Some other time, eh?"

Wulfram nods before turning back to you. "So? Is it agreed then?" he asks expectantly. "One may be assured that one will never taste a finer roast duck in his life."

"I'm not sure what I've done to deserve such an honour," you say.

"I like to know where men stand on things, what they believe," Wulfram replies. "I discussed much the same with Lord Palliser last month when he was made Viscount of Kharangia."

Palliser shifts a little as a slight look of unease passes over his features.

"Is that not what the chamber is for?" you ask. "To voice one's beliefs?"

"What is said in the chamber and what is believed by the speaker is not always the same thing," Wulfram replies. "To speak one's beliefs before the Cortes is to put on an act. One stands before a hundred men, all looking for an excuse to shout one down, knowing that every word may earn one an enemy or lose one a friend. Yet if one is a Lord of the Cortes, one is also, in a sense, my brother. Even if we disagree, I would not wish to mischaracterise a brother's beliefs based on words that may be distorted by duress, rhetoric, or the ill intentions of interpreters. Come to the Rendower with me, and you will have every opportunity to explain your thoughts without such vexations."

[ ] "My apologies, Your Grace, but I am already spoken for this evening."
[ ] "I'd be happy to accept your invitation, Your Grace."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I'd be happy to accept your invitation, Your Grace."

"Very good," Wulfram says with a warm grin. "I shall send a coach to your lodgings at, say - eight o'clock. Good evening."

Palliser hides his disappointment well as Wulfram makes his exit. "I assume this means we won't be seeing you this evening? A pity that, a real demmed pity. But I suppose if the Duke of Wulfram offers an invitation, one cannot simply refuse."

"I fear so," you reply, trying not to make your decision look like a snub. "Perhaps some other time?"

The Lancer nods and flashes you one last grin. "Yes, perhaps, but until then, I give you joy of the evening."

And with that, Palliser and Hugh disappear into the throng, leaving you alone.

-​

The Duke of Wulfram's coach arrives at eight o'clock precisely. Dressed in your best frock coat and cravat, you take the short journey to re-accustom yourself to the idiosyncrasies of civilian dress. It has been weeks since you returned to Tierra and left active service, but the sensation of knee breeches and walking shoes are still an oddity to a body used to loose dragoon trousers and stiff, hobnailed boots. Hats are another vexation. The sleek bicornes that had been in fashion when the war began are now dreadfully outdated, replaced by tall, cylindrical felt hats with wide brims and flat tops.

Sometimes, you can only sigh in memory of the well-accustomed weight of your dragoon helmet upon your head. If only—

The coach lurches to a stop. You look outside the window to find yourself in an unspeakably fashionable part of the city. No townhouses here but genuine palaces, with courtyards, carriage houses, and grand mansions done up in grand neo-Calligian style. The streets are not choked with the carts and foot traffick of the poor, nor the palanquins of the wealthy, but the magnificent city coaches of families capable of maintaining such an extravagant expense even in this, the most extravagantly expensive of cities.

Indeed, that appears to be the problem.

Had this been any other street in the city, the flow of traffick would have continued, edging past any blockage that might ensue. But there's no squeezing a full-sized coach through the situation you see before you, for the entire length of the street ahead is stopped up by a long queue of such conveyances. At its head, a great crowd of well-heeled passersby and their liveried servants are staring at… something, and raising no small amount of commotion in doing so.

It seems you are going nowhere anytime soon. Maybe the coachman knows what's the matter.

You rap your hand against the lacquered roof of the coach once, twice.

There's a series of thumps from outside as the cabin shifts to one side, then the other. A moment later, a tall, burly fellow in the blue-and-silver tunic and trousers of House Candless steps up to the window. "Is there a problem, my lord?" he asks in a rough baritone, covered with a barely noticeable Wulframite accent.

"Why have we stopped?" you demand.

The coachman tries to look forward, only to turn back, a hint of frustration on his blocky features.

"Pardon me a moment, my lord," he says before climbing back onto the coach. Again, you are rocked side-to-side as he clambers to the top and then back down again.

When he returns, he seems no more satisfied than before. "Some sort of accident ahead, my lord," he reports. "Looks like a machine of some sort sprawled out on the road. Lots of smoke coming from it. Never seen such a thing before in me life."

"A machine? What sort of machine?"

"I—I can't rightly say, my lord," the coachman admits. "A big iron tube, with lots of little tubes around it. Saw some brasswork too, I think. Reminds me a bit of the mechanical water looms we had in the mill back home, but I don't think any of those had chimneys."

He pauses for a moment, brow furrowed in thought, then shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, my lord. Maybe it's some sort of new contraption they have in the capital," he concludes. "I've only been here a few weeks myself."

So much for that. You order the coachman back to his duties. Ahead, the commotion seems even greater now.

[X] I go and look to see what's going on.
[ ] I wait. Whatever the issue is, I'm sure it will be resolved soon.

You rap your knuckles against the roof again. After a moment, the coachman is back by the window. "Yes, my lord?"

"I mean to go on ahead, see what's the matter," you reply.

The coachman looks towards the commotion ahead, then back to you, then back forward, like a clockwork sculpture with a broken cog. Finally, he turns back with a look of resignation and pulls open the door. "Very well, my lord."

You pick your way up the street, careful not to let your soft-soled shoes slip on the slick cobbles—what you would do for a pair of heavy boots right about now—and find yourself joining the rear of the great mass of men and women clustered around the source of the blockage. For a moment, you consider clearing your throat to draw attention to yourself. Were you still in Antar, and were this a crowd of junior officers, such a thing would have been only natural. Faced with a superior officer, they would have cleared the way as a matter of course.

But you are no longer in Antar or even an officer on the active list. You are merely one gentleman, moderately well-dressed, in a crowd full of them. Instead, you resort to jostling and edging your way through the crevices in the throng until at last, you get a good view of the cause of all this commotion.

It is not in the least what you could have expected.

In the clearing ahead, a small-framed man in a soot-stained grey jacket converses excitedly with a pair of Intendancy constables. As he gesticulates wildly with one hand, he wipes at his face with the other, his handkerchief coming away stained grey and black with soot.

Yet the crowd pays them no mind. Indeed, their attention seems to be drawn completely and fully to the contraption sprawled out on the cobblestones right in the middle of the street.

It is certainly an impressively sized machine, a massive cylinder of wrought iron atop four hugely reinforced wheels linked together by a spindly mass of rods, sprockets, and pistons. A narrow smokestack is perched atop the frame, though whatever exhaust it might have channelled now pours out the ruptured side of the giant iron chamber, its skin burst open like a sheet of tin by a musket ball. A quartet of limbered cannons sits tethered behind the thing, their presence made forgettable by their sheer mundanity next to such an outlandish machine.

You take a closer look at the machine to recognise it at long last. It is a vapour engine, a device that can generate mechanical force from the evaporation of water. You've seen illustrations of such machines before. You know that Kian and Takaran universities have been known to use them for research on the properties of heat and mechanical force and that certain firms have even been experimenting with them as a replacement for water wheels and windmills, but as far as you knew, none of those endeavours had ever been proven to be practicable. Why someone would try to use such a thing to power a cart—

That's when you notice that you're not the only one trying to take a closer look at the machinery. Indeed, not half a dozen paces away from you, two figures observe the thing as they converse quietly with each other. One, you recognise as the Duke of Wulfram. The other is no less a familiar face: the Earl of Castermaine, formerly General-of-Brigade in the King's Army. What are they doing here?

[X] I must examine that machine more closely.

You come closer, as close as you dare, given that you are examining a machine that has—judging by the scorch marks on the cobblestone and the debris strewn everywhere—recently exploded.

Indeed, your curiosity is not disappointed. It only takes a few moments of examination to understand the basic principles through which the vapour engine powers a set of pistons, which in turn drive the wheels. Nor does it take you long to recognise the ingenuity of the layout, how the pistons are set at an angle to allow the axles to be sprung like a coach's, or how a set of gears easily allows the operator to adjust the amount of rotational force applied to the wheels.

Yet the most intriguing discovery comes from what you can see of the great heart of the vapour engine itself, the boiler. Through the open wound in its side, you glimpse a collection of copper pipes connecting the firebox to the chimney, set carefully apart from each other and suspended over the steaming, bubbling remains of the boiler's water. As far as you knew, vapour engines only had a single such tube, used to convey the heat of the firebox to the water in the boiler. With multiple such tubes, the heat would have more contact with the boiler water, allowing for faster heating, better efficiency, and more power.

Of course, more power meant higher pressure, which is probably what led to the saints-be-damned thing exploding.

[X] How is the crowd taking all of this?

Out of the entire mass of humanity gathered around the machine, you suppose you must be singular in your attention towards the observers rather than the device they are observing.

In truth, though, you find very little of interest. The crowd bears exactly the sort of emotions you might expect of a group of people observing a mechanical curiosity in a state of distress: anxiety, curiosity, a bit of marvel, a bit of fear. Granted, they are, perhaps, a bit more calm than you would have expected from individuals who have just watched a strange machine explode on the street in front of them, but that is hardly out of the ordinary.

No, if there is any insight to be found in the crowd, it is not for the likes of you to find.

[X] I take a look at those cannons.

Turning your eyes from the centre of the spectacle, you direct your attention to the cannon instead.

At first glance, there is naught amiss with the guns. They're heavy twenty-four-pounders on a field gun carriage. You've seen the like many times before. The weapon itself seems perfectly serviceable and perfectly normal. Perhaps they're on loan from one of the royal armouries. That would mean the Intendancy men were assigned to ensure they weren't lost. The only real question you can think of pertains to their purpose: what are they doing tied to such an outlandish device?

At first, you can only think that the guns were to be used as some sort of anchor to ensure the machine did not roll away somehow. It is an improbable and impractical explanation, to be sure, there are much easier ways to anchor a wheeled cart, most of which do not involve rolling artillery down a publick street, but perhaps there's some other reason.

Unfortunately, the only other possibilities are even more ludicrous. No, the cannon had to have been acting as an anchor for some reason or other. No other explanation makes sense.

[X] Best I speak to Wulfram and Castermaine.

The Duke of Wulfram looks up as he sees you approaching.

"Lord Reddingfield?" he asks, a sudden look of worry on his face. "Where is Forsythe? I ordered him to take you all the way to the club."

"He's still with the coach, Your Grace," you reply. "I saw the commotion and came to take a look for myself."

Wulfram accepts your answer with a nod. "I cannot blame you." He waves a hand at the iron machine before you. "Quite the marvel, isn't it?"

"A marvellous waste of time and effort, perhaps," Castermaine grumbles. "Forgive me, Wulfram, but I fail to see the point of such an extravagance. What wisdom is there in committing such prodigious amounts of material and labour for the sake of…whatever in creation this is."

That begs an interesting question. "I beg your pardon, but what is this device exactly?"

"I believe it is called a 'traction engine,'" Wulfram replies. "It uses a vapour engine to provide motive force without draught animals. There have been quite a few such experiments in Aetoria over the past few years. More in Tannersburg, as well."

"A passing fad, no doubt," Castermaine grumbles. "It's all young men with too much money and too little sense seeing firms like Garing, Gutierrez, and Truscott make money with their new designs for artillery and thinking they can do the same, only with ridiculous contraptions like this instead of something practical."

Wulfram frowns. "Unlike cannon, these 'ridiculous contraptions,' as you call them, may have use in ways beyond making it easier for us to kill one another. A traction engine like that one could be of great use pulling heavy loads."

"A team of horses can do the same work," Castermaine replies with a hint of exasperation. "I have no doubt that a team of horses is a great deal cheaper to acquire and maintain than that monstrosity, as well. Besides…" He nudges his chin at the gouts of steam roiling from the traction engine's wounded flank. "Horses don't explode."

Wulfram inclines his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps you are right, but some of the innovations we've seen over the past few years have certainly been of use. The new streetlamps, for instance. Some of the men running my mining companies have begun using vapour engines to pump water out of deep shafts. Surely, if this war has brought us any positive legacy, it is the wave of invention it has spurred."

For his part, Castermaine seems less than convinced. "It is a passing fashion, nothing more," he replies. "Give things a few years, and we will all suddenly be taken by some other fancy, and we will realise that water wheels and draught horses were better after all. Machines like this one will be set up as curiosities in some publick square or other, where they belong."

The Duke of Wulfram doesn't reply at first. Then, his brow still furrowed in thought, he turns to you. "What do you think, Reddingfield?"

[ ] "I fear Lord Castermaine has the right of it. Such inventions are a fad, no more."
[ ] "I think these new inventions may be the heralds of a new age of progress."
[ ] "I would advise patience and see how these inventions develop before making a judgement."
[ ] "I cannot say, sir. I am too ignorant of this matter to form an opinion."