Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "I fear Her Highness is right. We must consider the repercussions of even our personal decisions."

Lady Ravenstall settles into an indignant pout. "It is a single dress! I fail to see how a single dress might bring down the whole of the linen trade."

"A single dress? No, it is far more than that." The Princess spares a moment to offer you a look of…satisfaction? Approval?

"What do you think the other ladies at court will do when they see the 'Black Pearl of Ravenstall' wearing a daring new dress? Some will disapprove, of course, but I think most will apply to their own dressmakers immediately for a copy. It will become the fashion in Aetoria overnight, and what is fashionable in Aetoria will be fashionable in Havenport and Tannersburg next season. By the end of the month, a single dress will have become a thousand. By the end of the year, a hundred thousand."

The Princess's voice comes at full force now, an orator's contralto filling the room like rolling thunder. "A hundred thousand dresses. That might be a million and a half crown. Would you rather that fortune be spent feeding the starving children of linen weavers and cotton pickers? Or paying for the jade footstool of some Kian merchant prince's eighteenth concubine?"

Lady Ravenstall sits back down with a look of defeat. "Oh, very well. I shall try sheer linen," she pouts. "And I shall show up at court looking like an old cobweb, and everyone shall laugh at me."

In an instant, the Princess is by her friend's side, her demagogue's demeanour shed like a shawl. "Oh, there's no need for such self-pity, Wen. I could make you wear a burlap sack, and you'd only need five minutes to turn it into something which would turn the head of every beau in the room."

The Viscountess offers a sly little grin. "Oh, that would be easy. I would simply have to cut the right parts off!"

The Princess smiles back as the room fills with a round of scandalised giggles. She settles back into her chair with a look of satisfaction.

"Now then, if that matter is settled? Vin, you mentioned an article of interest in this morning's Observer. One wonders if…".

​

In Aetoria, you've found no subject of conversation more readily taken up than a question with a potentially scandalous answer. And of all the questions asked, none seem to approach the potential of those pertaining to Princess Isobel's insular little circle.

You've spent enough time in Aetoria to hear all the theories by now. They were a secret conspiracy, running the realm behind His Majesty's back, some said. They were a conspiracy plotting to overthrow the King and put his sister on the throne, said others. Other guesses tend towards the even tawdrier territory. There was one, passed around with lascivious relish, that implied they kept the senior members of the Royalist faction in thrall through the trafficking of their own charms. Another, no less salacious, asserted that the whole thing was nothing more than a cover for the supposed Takaran tendencies of the Princess-Royal's sexual appetites and that the other members of the circle were her clandestine lovers, each seduced into slaking her unnatural lust.

As you sit among them, the truth seems almost a disappointment. True, the Princess-Royal's companions come from among the most powerful and influential of the Unified Kingdom's families. True, their conversation quickly turns to matters of state, their discussions of problems and solutions edged with a ferocious intellectualism of the sort which you've rarely seen before. But in the end, they are exactly what they seem to be: a tight-knit group of gently born ladies enjoying each other's company over tea and cakes.

Yet that simple answer seems only to raise more questions. A casual meeting of friends does not discuss matters of state with such deadly earnest as these young women do, nor would they speak so confidently of directing such matters themselves.

And they certainly wouldn't have invited you here simply to listen to them speak of Intendancy politics and shipping tariffs.

"Now then, I believe those are the pleasantries dealt with," one of the younger ladies—the Earl of Weathern's daughter, you believe—declares with a note of finality, pulling you back out of your thoughts. "Shall we…" Her eyes flick to you for just the barest moment. "Shall we move on to pressing business?"

The Princess fixes you with a sharp, probing look. "No," she says after a moment's searching. "Not yet. I believe our guest has a few questions for us first…don't you, my lord?"

[X] "Is it…normal to speak of matters of state like this?"

The Princess's eyebrow raises ever so slightly. "I do not see how it would not be normal to do so, my lord," she replies mildly.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," you reply, choosing your words carefully. "I had not believed it customary for ladies of the blood to discuss such matters in such a setting."

"Oh, is that so?" Weathern's daughter interjects with all the vicious pleasure of a predatory bird. "You must forgive me, my lord. I had not known you to have such a familiarity with the private gatherings of ladies of the blood. Pray tell me, have you attended many such affairs?"

What exactly is she insinuating? "That's—" You fumble for the right words as you feel the blood rushing to your face. "My lady, that's—I'm not sure—perhaps you have misunderstood—"

"Misunderstood you?" your diminutive assailant continues, pressing her advantage for all it's worth. "If that is the case, then I must wonder where such a familiarity comes from. Might you be so kind as to enlighten us?"

A fresh set of giggles echoes across the room, but the Princess-Royal only raises her hand to stop her friend before she can continue.

"Enough, Tiza. Let's not embarrass our guest." She turns to you. "My lord, we are not so different from any other gathering of ladies or gentlemen for that matter. We discuss what interests us, as you might at a club or a salon."

"And it is matters of state which interest you?"

"Should they not, my lord? We are no less the King's subjects than you are. The same blood of command that runs through your veins runs through ours. Should the realm prosper, we prosper. Should calamity befall it, we shall be no less isolated from the damage than you or your fellows." She shakes her head. "No. The direction of this realm is as much a matter of importance for us as it is for you, my lord. It would be folly not to remain cognizant of it."

[X] "How much power does this assembly really have?"

"I beg pardon, my lord?" the Princess asks. "I am not sure I understand what you mean."

"It is simply that you sit here and speak of the affairs of state as if you could change them," you reply.

The Princess offers you a wintry little smile. "Has one considered, perhaps, that we speak of changing such affairs because we can?"

"How could that be when you possess no authority of your own? You are not Lords of the Cortes or King's officers, and only Lady Welles possesses an office in the King's service," you point out. "Forgive me, but if one possesses no authority, how might one wield power?"

For a moment, the Princess-Royal almost seems about to burst into laughter. "Cortes seats? Officers' commissions? Is that where you think power comes from?"

You give the matter a careful moment of thought. "No," you conclude. "J'eanneouais wrote that power was the ability to make others believe as you believe. One does not need a title or an office for that."

To one side, you see more than one head bob up and down in approval. The Princess only offers a thin smile. "He would be correct, of course." She gestures to her sides with a dainty flick of her fingers. "When I look upon my friends, I do not see them as powerless; far from it. They are the arbiters of fashion and taste. Their salons and parties are their fiefdoms, and the invitees to their dinners are their soldiers. They count amongst their husbands and brothers and fathers some of the most senior officials in the King's service, and they before all others are best positioned to offer those men comfort and counsel."

Her smile grows wider, her expression filling with quiet pride. "There is power in those things, more than one might imagine. There is little distinction betwixt holding a sword oneself and holding sway of the hearts of men who do."

[X] "I was wondering how you keep yourself so remarkably well-informed."

"One reads, my lord," she replies as if stating the obvious. "The Northern Keep maintains one of the most comprehensive and expansive libraries in the Unified Kingdom. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it."

Well, there's half your answer, but only half. "What of current affairs, Your Highness? Surely one cannot acquire the latest knowledge of that through a library."

"Of course not," she replies with a twitch of a smile. "But when one possesses what is likely the finest intelligence-gathering service in the city, one hardly needs ought else."

You catch the Princess-Royal's meaning immediately. Some of the leading lights of Aetoria's high society are in this room; charming, intelligent women at the very centre of the capital's social life. You can only imagine how many salons, parties, and dinners they attend betwixt them—and you cannot imagine the volume of gossip, rumours, and genuine secrets they pick up amidst the rustle of silks and the flutter of fans.

"I'm surprised the information one receives from such sources is accurate."

The Princess answers with, what from a more vulgar figure, might have been considered a snort of derision. "It isn't. Go to five different parties, and you will hear six different stories about the same event. That's why we meet here, to compare what we've heard, find the pattern, and sift out the truth."

Ah. Rather clever, that.

[X] "That leaves only one more question, Your Highness: why am I here?"

The Princess-Royal fixes you with a steady look, an experience you seem to find distressingly similar to looking down the muzzle of a loaded pistol. "You are aware that my brother the King has, through a great deal of negotiation and despite much opposition, ordered the creation of a Royal Commission to determine means to reform the army?"

"I am, Your Highness, though I did not know the pains to which His Majesty went to ensure its existence."

The Princess nods coldly. "And you are aware that the Duke of Wulfram and his allies in the Cortes have declared themselves against any initiative which may increase the Crown's reliance on the current scheme of taxation and thus stands opposed to any attempt at army reform?"

Ah, so that's what this is all about. You nod, resisting the urge to smile. "Her Highness believes the Duke of Wulfram is planning to somehow obstruct the Army Reform Commission?"

"No," she replies flatly. "I believe the Duke of Wulfram has already well begun the process of obstructing the Army Reform Commission and that if he is to succeed, then all of the work that has been committed to its establishment will come to naught."

A dire prospect for the King, you suppose, but what does that have to do with his sister? Or you, for that matter?

"We do not, of course, mean to allow this to pass unchallenged," the Princess continues. "And now, we believe we have just the means at our disposal to offer a reply."

"What would those means be, Your Highness?"

Her lips curl into a wintry little smile. "Why…you, my lord."

"Me, Your Highness?"

The Princess nods. "You are a soldier, my lord. My sources—" She waves a hand at Countess Welles, seated beside her. "—inform me that you are a fighting officer of exceptional experience. More importantly, I believe that experience to have made evident in your mind the necessity of pursuing reform of the King's Army."

You sit in silent confusion as the Princess's words sink in. You? But you—how—

"The Duke of Wulfram is not a soldier," she continues. "He possesses the self-awareness to see that, at least. Instead, he means to act through those of his allies who have already secured places on the Commission, particularly the Earl of Castermaine." She fixes you with a steady look. "We shall answer in kind. Once you are placed on the Commission, you will act as one of our agents, ensuring that it operates without undue interference."

So far, so good, you suppose, save for the obvious problem. "With respect, Your Highness, I fear that to secure a place on a Royal Commission as an individual of my current circumstances would be…difficult." To sit on a Royal Commission is to secure one of the greatest privileges of all, to advise the King's Majesty in confidence, something allowed only to the Privy Council otherwise. Naturally, seats on such bodies are reserved only for those possessing the greatest influence, wealth, or royal favour. They're not exactly handed out to poor country barons.

"Do not worry about that, my lord," the Princess replies. "Take our offer and a seat will be arranged. The only question one need concern himself with is whether one means to accept."

[X] "If I accept, what would Your Highness then require of me?"

"Keep your eyes open," the Princess replies. "I am told that Castermaine has a reputation for caution. That might be used to our advantage. Discover his plans to obstruct the Commission while they are not yet in train, and you shall have more than enough time to foil them."

"The Earl of Castermaine is a man of wealth and standing, not to mention a soldier of no small stature," you point out. "He has many friends, both among the Duke of Wulfram's faction and at Grenadier Square. Would one be safe in assuming that I shall not be required to oppose him alone?"

The Princess's lips curl into a grin. "One may, my lord. I daresay that one who has commanded a squadron of cavalry in battle will find the task of rallying like-minded peers to the defence of Army Reform easy enough. And one might similarly rest assured that he would not be the only one acting on my behalf."

Your eyes flick quickly towards Countess Welles, your gaze lingering just long enough to see her offer you an almost imperceptible nod. So this is not the Princess-Royal's only gambit. You suppose you should have figured as much.

That only leaves one remaining issue to be settled. "What of the Commission itself?" you ask. "Shall I be required to support a certain position?"

The Princess replies with a look of genteel amusement. "Assuming Wulfram's hands are kept out of it, you may support whatever position pleases you." She shakes her head. "The martial sciences are your field of expertise, not mine. No doubt, your years of active service have provided you with no shortage of proposals to improve the workings of the King's Army. It would be remiss of you not to present them."

So the Princess intends for you not only to act as her agent within the Army Reform Commission but to do the full work of a commissioner as well? "Her Highness asks a great deal of me."

"I am not ignorant of the value of my offer," she replies simply. "And I do intend to make the most of it."

[X] "Are you sure Wulfram means to obstruct the Commission?"

"I am absolutely certain," the Princess replies in a tone that brooks no argument. "Wulfram means to ensure that the Commission either fails to deliver any conclusions which may be used to justify the further expansion or refurbishment of the King's Army, and he means to do so through his allies already appointed to the Commission. I have it under the very best authority."

It is not a complete answer, but you can imagine what it implies easily enough. "Her Highness has a source within the Duke of Wulfram's household?" It would have to be someone close to the Duke. His valet, perhaps? Or a particularly well-liked footman?

Yet the Princess shakes her head. "No. Wulfram is quite capable of cultivating the love of those in his service. I doubt any would think of betraying him, even if I were to attempt swaying them."

So much for that idea.

"In any case, the origin of my information bears no relevance to this conversation," she continues airily. "All one need know is that its reliability is beyond question: Wulfram means to sabotage the Commission, you may treat that intelligence as a fact."

You suppose you shall have to take it for granted. The Princess-Royal has given you her word, and if you cannot trust the King's own sister, then who can you trust?

[X] "What reason does Your Highness have to support Army Reform?"

The Princess's eyebrow raises. "Is it not enough to know that I do support it?"

You shake your head. "Not if I am to be your agent. If I am to act on your behalf, I must know that your ends will not weigh on my conscience."

The Princess-Royal makes a quiet little sound, almost like a quiet 'ah,' like that of a detective who has solved a vexing mystery, only to find the answer less exciting than expected.

"I believe Tierra to be on the verge of a time of great turmoil," she explains. "By defeating Antar in battle, we have proven ourselves equal to one of the Great Powers. Now, we must defend our gains from those who would be our enemies. By deterrence if possible. By fire and steel, if necessary. For that, we shall need a strong army. We do not have Takara's riches or Kian's multitudes, but we do have one advantage: the fact that we have just recently fought and won a substantial war. If we do not take advantage by learning and applying its lessons, we would be throwing away our best chance of securing a better place for ourselves and our countrymen."

She sits back. "Does that satisfy you?"

You nod. Whether it's a good answer or not, you cannot say for sure, but it is sincere.

"It does, Your Highness."

"Good."

[ ] [ISOBEL] "I accept, Your Highness."
[ ] [ISOBEL] "I fear I must refuse, Your Highness."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [ISOBEL] "I accept, Your Highness."

The Princess nods, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. "I was hoping you would."

She nods to one of the ladies at her side, who quickly steps forward with a curious-looking writing table, already furnished with inkpot, pen, candle, and a stick of wax. She reaches under her petticoat to pull a piece of thick, heavy paper from her pocket, then unfolds it atop the little table before stepping back.

"What's this?" you ask, peering at the little arrangement, obviously prepared ahead of time.

"It is an assurance," the Princess replies. "I would like there to be no misunderstandings about the nature of our agreement."

You take a closer look. So it is, complete with a space for your signature at the very bottom. Part of you bristles at the implication carried in those nearly lettered articles. Are you considered so untrustworthy as to be required to sign a contract like some sort of tradesman?

"Must I put my signature to paper?" you ask, feeling somewhat attacked at the lack of trust. "Is the word of a gentleman not enough?"

One of the ladies to the Princess's left fixes you with an amused look. "If one thinks that, then clearly one has clearly been luckier dealing with such gentlemen than I."

The room fills with scandalised giggles and the sound of fluttering fans. You sign the document, colour rising in your cheeks as you quickly melt the wax over the document and stamp the arms of your house into the resulting blob, an impression of your signet ring.

The same young lady who brought the table now takes it away, handing the newly signed document to the Princess-Royal, who nods with a certain finality as she folds the paper up and slips it into her own pocket.

She stands, a signal for the rest of the room to do the same. "I believe our business is concluded."

As a body, the Princess and her ladies retreat from the room, gracefully drifting away like a receding tide.

All except one.

"I must apologise for Wen," Countess Welles begins as she takes a step towards you. "She is a most outrageous flirt, but she did not mean anything by it, I am sure."

The last time you saw the Countess of Welles was at the aftermath of Second Kharangia. She'd been dressed as a soldier then, in a lancer's tight-fitting frogged jacket and breeches. She fought as a soldier that day, though her official purpose was solely to observe the progress of the war on Grenadier Square's behalf. Her clothing had been all covered with mud and gore, and the sabre you thought she only wore as an affectation was dripping with blood.

Now, she wears a court dress of deep blue and a great spray of pearls across her neck, her face made up to be smooth and flawless, her chestnut hair curled carefully and pinned up in the latest fashion. Were it not for the familiarity of her voice, you might have taken her for someone entirely different.

But there's no mistaking her now. Her eyes sparkle with recognition as that same familiar intensity spreads across her freshly remembered features.

"Oh, but it is good to see you again!" she exclaims, taking another step closer, stopping only short of taking your hands in hers. "It has been far too long, my lord Reddingfield."

[ ] [WELLES] "The separation was not of my choosing, my lady."
[ ] [WELLES] "It is good to see you as well, my lady."
[ ] [WELLES] "My life has been made lesser without your presence, my dear lady." We only simp for Cazarosta(s) around here.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [WELLES] "It is good to see you as well, my lady."

The Countess smiles. "I am glad the feeling has been mutual, it…"

She shakes her head. "I must apologise. Three years since we saw each other last, and I have only sent a single letter; you must think me the most wretched scrub."

"It is as you said in your letter, my lady," you reply. "You remain in the King's service, and I cannot expect you to throw over your duty for the sake of friendship, any more than I might expect it out of a brother-officer."

Her smile grows wider. "That is very kind of you, my lord, though I must warn you that duty rests its heavy hand on me still. It was difficult enough to find the time for today, and…" She looks over her shoulder, to where the Princess-Royal awaits her. "And I fear I do not have much of it left to spend."

[ ] [WELLES] "Will I see you on the Army Reform Commission?"
[ ] [WELLES] "Wulfram, the King, Her Highness; where do you stand?"
[ ] [WELLES] "How is the atmosphere in Grenadier Square these days?"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [WELLES] "Will I see you on the Army Reform Commission?"

"You shall," Welles replies. "My position on the Commission has already been confirmed. I daresay I shall be the only civilian present…and the only woman, of course."

She will be quite the odd duck then, doubly so for her unique circumstances. If the Commission would have been a difficult prospect for you, one could only imagine how much worse it would be for one disadvantaged by both sex and the lack of an officer's commission. Unless…

"You are the author of the Blogia Report, and this new report on the whole of the Antari War besides," you reply. "I daresay that your prior work is one of the reasons this Commission exists at all. It would have been the height of folly not to have put you on it, whatever else your circumstances."

Welles smiles at that. "You are kind to say so. Sometimes, I fear that it is—"

Suddenly, she trails off, as if answering some signal that only she can hear. She peers over her shoulder again, at the Princess-Royal's expectant expression as she waits by the door.

"Forgive me, I have to go. I wish…" She pauses for a moment as she searches for the words. "I wish we had longer…"

[ ] [WELLES] "Good day then, my lady."
[ ] [WELLES] "Perhaps we may speak again sometime."
[ ] [WELLES] "I would find it unbearable if we could not see each other again, and soon!"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [WELLES] "Perhaps we may speak again sometime."
Since we aren't romancing Welles, I'll select the option that won't put her off.

Click to shrink...

Welles nods eagerly. "Yes, I will see you at the Army Reform Commission, won't I? The first meeting will be in three weeks."

"Yes, you shall," you reply. "Perhaps we may speak at further length there?"

"I…" The Countess trails off for a moment, weighing your words before nodding again. "Yes, I would like that." She steps back, offering you a little curtsey as she does.

Then she is gone, withdrawing to the company of the Princess-Royal.

A liveried royal footman leads you back through the corridors of the Northern Keep, out of the annex containing the royal apartments and towards the Lords' Course, where your coach awaits. Once or twice, as you follow the serving-man through the sober, granite-floored halls of the Intendancy Wing, harried-looking clerks pass you by, their hands invariably loaded down with folios and ledgers. It is an almost sobering thought to remember that for all of its palatial stylings, the Northern Keep is still a building of business, the working headquarters of His Majesty's Government. To the men and women who regularly inhabit its halls, the Northern Keep is no more than the equivalent of a shop counter or a carpenter's table.

Yet to you, who has never had the chance to wander freely through the building before, it is quite a marvellous edifice. More than once, you drag your guide off on a detour to some room you've heard of before only in childhood stories. There's the Montjoy Room, where hang the regimental colours of Callum the Cruel's vanquished army; the Varsovian Pool, which Edmund II populated with imported Takaran koi at great expense; the Gallery of Plenty, its walls lined with frescoes of the Unified Kingdom's many manufactures and exports, all rendered in minute detail.

And there is the Armorial Hall, of course.

You spend quite some time there, gawping like a tourist at the painted shields lined up along the walls and vaulted ceiling, one representing each house with a seat on the Cortes. Your eyes go from the massive, ornate, ducal arms of the Candlesses of Wulfram and the Harrises of Warburton, to the smaller shields of the marquesses, the earls, the viscounts, and then finally, the tiny carved crests of the baronial houses, lined up in vast profusion. You recognise a few of them, even though each is barely the size of your hand: there is Reyes, and Redmarch, and Slaine, and Hawthorne, and…

Yes, and there is yours, hanging from a dark corner, forgotten save by the touch of some servant's long-handled broom.

Part of you had wanted to come to Aetoria to change all that, to make a mark in politics, just as you did on the battlefield. But looking at that tiny crest in that dark corner, you know you won't be able to do it through the Cortes alone, not as one voice among six hundred.

Perhaps the Princess-Royal's offer will allow you the chance. If the Army Reform Commission succeeds and its recommendations are adopted, then your work might be remembered by generations of Tierran soldiers to come.

It is a heady prospect, but it is also a weighty one. It may be your judgement alone that decides whether those soldiers will bless or curse your name. Their lives may depend upon the word which you have agreed to do, not just those of a squadron or a regiment, but a whole army, your successors stretching out in endless ranks into the unknown future.

It is a notion that clings to you as your coach rattles its way back to your townhouse. It is a thought which weighs heavily upon your mind as the days before the opening of the Cortes pass, one by one.

-​

You heard stories as a child of what the opening of the Cortes was like under jolly old Edmund IV: of how the Lords had paraded into the chamber in the bright-coloured frippery so fashionable at the time, to the blare of trumpets and clouds of rose petals; of how young hotheads would use even the slightest pretext to challenge each other to duels on the Chamber floor; of how the old King sipped brandy as he lounged upon the Gryphon Throne and made merry with his mistresses as they jeered or applauded debates from the galleries. To your young mind, it had seemed very fine, a party that never ended and never paused, save to consider some matter of state with only the finest of spirits and the best of good humour.

There is none of that today.

Today, the opening session of the Cortes proves a sober, almost sombre thing, with men filing through the double doors in their black coats and presenting themselves before the straight-backed, unsmiling presence of the King's Majesty before quietly taking their seats. The air seems thick and heavy, weighing down your thoughts with every sodden breath, rendering your mind sluggish and clammy like dishwater soaking a rag.

Those around you feel it too. The benches are half full today, more than there were at your investiture last year, yet the men around you seem almost asleep, their eyes glazed over. Even the King seems less vibrant than the time you saw him last, his auburn hair hanging limp under his coronet as he holds Pactmaker in his hands and commands the opening of the Cortes with a droning, exhausted voice.

Only one figure seems fully alert today, and he all but leaps from the bench the instant the sword of state is taken from the King's fingers. You feel something tense up in the small of your back as the figure makes his way before the throne.

"Your Majesty, His Grace the Duke of Wulfram requests permission to present a motion to the chamber."

At long last, the chamber begins to bestir itself as the Duke of Wulfram makes his way to the centre of the aisle. All around you, your fellow lords rise as if from a slumber, whispering urgently to each other, throwing glances at their allies, their enemies, and the Duke himself as he at last begins to speak.

"I thank you all, my lords, for giving me the pleasure of being the first to present a motion in this new session of the Cortes," Wulfram begins, his voice sombre. "Today ought to be a day of joy, a day to celebrate the rights and freedoms which we have the fortune to live under, a day to take pride in our most fair and liberal system of governance, which allows us to so ably aid and advise our gracious sovereign."

A handful of your fellow lords murmur polite approval as they nod. But most sit with silent apprehension. They know what must be coming next.

"Yet how can one be happy on this day, knowing of the crisis which has gripped our realm?" Wulfram's voice pitches up, his words filling with a slow and steady swell of righteous anger. "Not four months ago, the streets of Aetoria were piled with the bodies of those who had perished for want of food and shelter. The streets of Aetoria, and the streets of Tannersburg too, I must admit. How could one celebrate, knowing his countrymen lay dead not at the hand of a foreign enemy, but in the cold grasp of poverty and starvation? How could any of us know that the state of our realm has driven honest men to brigandage and thievery, and feel any sentiment but shame?"

More murmurs now, some of them angry. Perhaps some of your fellows thought Wulfram would have moderated his position over the winter. Now, it is clear that if anything, it has grown even harder.

"These are dire times, my lords! More dire than any which have ever darkened this chamber!" His voice carries with it a terrible momentum, filling the chamber like a cannonade. "The normal procedures have proven wanting, and when ordinary measures fail, it becomes one's duty to propose the extraordinary."

Wulfram reaches into his jacket. The whole chamber seems to hold its breath. He pulls something loose and raises it high over his head, a piece of paper.

"His Grace, the Duke of Wulfram, presents the following motions for immediate vote: that the war taxes be ended, that the expenditure for the King's Army be cut by three quarters, and that any further discussion of additional public spending be forbidden for the period of the next five years!"

You had thought the chamber quiet before; now it is completely silent.

This is not done. While Wulfram may have done nothing wrong in theory, it is an unspoken law that only the Chancellor of the Exchequer may present a budget to the chamber. That is his prerogative, and has been ever since the Cortes existed. And that isn't even to mention the content of the motion itself, not only to reduce the funding of the King's Army to such a state that it would almost certainly cease to exist in its current form, but to prevent any further spending for the next five years. It's unheard of, inconceivable, it is simply not—

The Earl of Castermaine stands from his seat. "I second the motion!"

"Third!" calls out another, the Marquess of Carrecourt.

The silence breaks; the chamber goes mad.

Suddenly, the air is filled with two hundred shouting voices. Accusations, recriminations, appeals, and insults fly like musket balls in open battle. You think you might have shouted something too, but you cannot be sure. So great is the cacophony that you cannot even hear yourself think, let alone speak.

"Order!" someone shouts—Lefebvre, you think. "Order in the chamber!"

You see him, standing next to the throne, his expression turning swiftly from exasperation to annoyance. His hand reaches for the pistol at his belt. Only a shake of the King's head dissuades him. Instead, the two wait, with varying levels of patience, until the shouting finally begins to recede.

"The chamber has heard the motion," the King finally declares, his voice straining to be heard. "Is it the pleasure of the chamber to endorse the motion?"

A vote then. You can only hope this will resolve the issue one way or the other.

[ ] [BUDGET] The King's Government must help the King's subjects, whatever the cost. I vote in favour.
[ ] [BUDGET] A reputation as Wulfram's ally will serve me well. I vote in favour.
[ ] [BUDGET] This is a dispute I want no part of. I abstain.
[ ] [BUDGET] Wulfram goes too far! I vote against!
[ ] [BUDGET] Presenting myself as the King's ally now may prove profitable in future. Against!

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] Wulfram goes too far! I vote against!

Wulfram may believe he is doing the right thing. Perhaps he believes that justifies his unprecedented motion here today. You believe differently, for he has not only proposed a motion which would effectively leave the Unified Kingdom defenceless against any potential threat while simultaneously seeking to constrain the King's right to authorise future spending, he has also done so in a manner which breaks with more than a century of established procedure.

It is one thing to criticise the King's policy or advise against a course of action, but to cast aside established conventions of the Cortes for the purpose of dictating terms to the King's face is quite another. Wulfram may believe that the situation calls for dire and drastic action, but that doesn't mean you must agree with him, especially when it is clear from the general disposition of the chamber that his view is far from unanimous.

So, when those against the motion are called to stand, and the King's supporters rise from their benches, you join them. You catch a few approving nods as you stand, most of them men you had known in Antar, rising in defence of the service which you fought as part of for so long.

You catch a few mutters from the Duke of Wulfram's supporters as well, less angry than disappointed, though you would have been rather shocked if they thought you'd have voted otherwise.

But in any case, your decision is made and tallied, and no disapproving looks can unmake it now.

Thankfully, the motion fails by a bare margin of fourteen votes. You can see the relief on the King's face as the votes are tallied, even from where you're sitting. He won't have to resort to his veto today.

You sit back in your bench with no small satisfaction. Now that the matter has been considered and rejected, surely it must be time to set it aside and move on to other, less contentious matters?

No such luck. It only takes moments for the Duke of Wulfram's supporters to pick up the banner once again and lead a fresh sally in defence of their chief's now-defeated policy. Far from being dissuaded by the vote, they now all but line up to deliver fresh harangues, to be answered with stiff opposition delivered at a full-throated roar. Before long, the chamber is engulfed in a whirl of shouts and reddened faces.

So much for less contentious matters.

-​

And so it continues, day after day, morning and night, as the same points are presented and recapitulated and refuted and presented again, a circle of endless noise and furious declarations, all, you must assume, bound to go somewhere, even if only the Saints seem to know where. Not even the club seems safe. Even there, all discussion seems to have devolved into the subject of Wulfram's budget: its strengths, its weaknesses, its motives, and its prospects.

You begin to regard the approaching first meeting of the Army Reform Commission with some sense of anticipation, if nothing else because it gives you something to think about besides the budget. You count down the days, until at last, the moment comes when you shrug on the familiar comfort of your uniform jacket, buckle on your dress sabre, climb into your coach, and give orders to be driven to Grenadier Square.

The meeting place of the Army Reform Commission proves to be a room deep in the bowels of Grenadier Square. Part of you cannot help but wonder if the location was chosen for reasons of secrecy, or to keep what must be the manifestation of a deeply unpopular policy away from the public eye.

Perhaps it is both.

You have no illusions regarding the purpose of this first meeting. It is an orientation for the purpose of getting to know your fellow commissioners, nothing more. Yet when the Grenadier corporal acting as your guide leads you through the double doors and into the spare, windowless room appointed for the Commission's use, it only takes you a moment to realise that the matter at hand will be considerably more complex than you might have previously thought.

The members of the Commission have already split into three individual groups, each holding their own conversations away from the other two.

The group closest to you seems composed mostly of cavalry officers, judging from the uniforms they're wearing. You recognise Lord Palliser, nearly half a head taller than most of his fellows, resplendent in lancer white and blue as if he were on parade. There are others too, all of them engaged in some heated conversation.

The second group is no less animated, but it is the uniforms of the regiments of foot which dominate here. Only two do not wear the burnt ochre of the infantry. One is Countess Welles, her pastel morning dress sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the spray of familiar uniforms. The other figure wears the sober waistcoat of a civil servant. You recognise him after a moment as William d'al Elson, Baron Hawthorne, the father of your old friend Captain Elson, who disappeared leading a charge at Blogia. He had once been Undersecretary at War. Now, he is the senior civil servant involved in the Commission. You suppose that makes him something like its leader after a fashion.

There is little activity among the third bunch. They're the smallest group of all, evenly split betwixt cavalry and infantry officers, throwing sullen looks at one group or the other as they pass each other baleful comments in voices barely above a whisper. All of them carry the rank insignia of battalion or squadron officers on their collars. These men are all relatively senior officers, clearly. However, there is only one of their number you recognise, and he is the most senior of all. The last time you saw the Earl of Castermaine was at the Rendower Club last autumn, where it had seemed quite obvious that he was a staunch, if somewhat contrarian, ally of the Duke of Wulfram. If the Princess-Royal is to be believed, then Castermaine is on the Commission solely to obstruct it. Perhaps it might be worth your time to see how founded her suspicions are.

Three groups, clearly of very different character. The question is, which do you approach first?

Pick two of the following groups to speak with.

Click to shrink...

[ ] [ARC] I should like to see what Palliser and his group are discussing.
[ ] [ARC] I'd like to see what Hawthorne and those infantry officers are up to.
[ ] [ARC] What of the Earl of Castermaine? What is he up to?

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] I'd like to see what Hawthorne and those infantry officers are up to.

Baron Hawthorne and his group pay you little attention as you approach them. Instead, they're listening to one of their number—a major of the Grenadiers, by the looks of him—holding forth at some length and with only the barest restraint.

"…so I say to you that any future logistics corps must have its own regimental establishment, complete with its own colours, colonel, and traditions. Otherwise, they will have little incentive not to adopt the traditions and idiosyncrasies of the regiments they are assigned to wholesale, until the point where each regiment will once again have its own standard of supply and maintenance."

Another officer, a spare, greying fellow with the iron-grey jacket facings of the engineers, shakes his head. After a moment, you recognise him as Lieutenant Colonel Diaz, the officer who was in charge of the siege of Kharangia. "It is all well and good to say that a logistics corps must be embodied as a regiment, but I must be obliged to ask as to the calibre of gentlemen such a regiment would attract when it offers little chance for advancement or glory? The engineers are the same, and I daresay that the new officers I receive would astound you with the extent of their ignorance and indolence. It is only with the greatest exertions that we can make anything useful of them at all. Would we really want such fellows in charge of the army's ability to feed and supply itself?"

"Perhaps there is a middle way?" a new voice interjects: Lady Welles. "You have all read my recommendations for the development of a school for the instruction of staff officers. Why not consider a similar institution for officers of the logistics corps? Even if—"

Suddenly, she looks up, directly at you.

"Oh! Lord Reddingfield!" she exclaims brightly. "How good of you to have come. Please, allow me the honour of introducing you."

A round of introductions follows. Most of the men present seem to know you already, by reputation at least. It doesn't take long for them to introduce themselves.

"Now then," Lady Welles continues. "We were discussing the formation of a permanent logistics corps. I hope one has no objections that such a possibility be examined by the Commission?"

[X] "Forgive me for asking, but is a permanent logistics corps really necessary?"

"Necessary?" Hawthorne replies incredulously. "Sir, I daresay it is vital! If there is any singular lesson that the war in Antar has taught us, it is that the current system is absolutely disastrous! One might even make bold enough to say that it was a Saints-damned miracle that we won the war at all, with the shambles our systems of supply were."

"Were things really so bad?" you ask. "They did not seem so at the time."

The other baron shakes his head. "They were an absolute mess. Individual regiments were scrambling to provide supplies which should have been arranged by the staff of the Commander in Chief, who in turn were completely lost making up for the mistakes made here in Grenadier Square. The first winter in Antar, half the army didn't even have winter greatcoats! In the winter of 610, the entire King's Division ran out of firewood. Could you imagine that?"

You don't have to. You were there, on both occasions, and the very mention of those cold days brings a chill to your bones. "Such shortfalls are really not normal, then?"

Hawthorne shakes his head again, harder this time, as if animated by the very injustice which he describes. "The staff of any Takaran general who bungled things so thoroughly would have likely been obliged to commit suicide on the spot. The Kian or the M'hidiyossi would have been no less harsh. Only in our own army might such absolute failures of organisation be considered anything close to normal!"

That comes as something of a shock to you. Your time in Antar was marked by a long and constant series of supply issues: insufficient food, a shortfall of fodder, late pay, decrepit equipment; but after years of enduring such trials, you had simply filed them away as part of the everyday hardships of war. To learn that they'd been considered by men like Hawthorne to be the result of a grossly inefficient system of supply is surprising, and more than a little infuriating.

"So you understand now, I trust," Hawthorne concludes, having obviously read the look on your face. "Never again ought we to demand that the King's soldiers go to war without a unified and coordinated logistics corps to keep it fed and supplied. If we are to build a new sort of army, then we must start there."

[X] "A new sort of army, sir?"

"Quite so," Hawthorne replies. "A new sort of army, organised among rational lines, its parts designed to work together in totality and bring as many men to the field of battle as possible, whilst ensuring they are supplied, fed, and equipped to a uniform standard. This current disordered conglomeration of private armies and self-interested nobles may have served Edwin the Strong's purposes during the Wars of Unification, but the war in Antar has shown that we cannot afford to rely upon it any further."

"The current system seems to have worked all right in Antar," you reply. "Surely, you exaggerate."

The other baron lets out a derisive snort. "I daresay I understate the problem wholly. The King maintained over sixty thousand men under arms at the height of the war in Antar, did you know that?"

Sixty thousand? When the King could barely muster a third that number to face off against Prince Khorobirit before the walls of Kharangia? Half of you wants to ask where exactly the rest of those sixty thousand were. The other half has already figured it out.

"You mean to tell me that the twenty thousand or so men mustered at the Second Battle of Kharangia were all that could be spared out of a force three times that number, with the rest lost to administrative inefficiencies?"

"It may surprise you to know that nearly a third of those soldiers weren't even in Antar at all," Lady Welles interjects. "For every battalion or squadron each regiment had in Antar, another was likely as not still in Tierra, either stranded for want of transport or necessary equipment, or performing recruiting duties for their individual regiments, a task which might have been more profitably accomplished with a single, centralised system."

Hawthorne nods grimly. "So you see, my lord, we fought Prince Khorobirit with one hand tied behind our back. I daresay we only won because of blind luck. We cannot think that we shall beat our next opponent in the same old way."

[X] "Do the other groups think as you do? Palliser and Castermaine?"

"Viscount Palliser means well," Hawthorne replies after a moment of thought. "I'll not have it be said that his commitment to reforming the army and improving its effectiveness in the field is any less than ours. He has certainly thrown himself into the task with great enthusiasm."

"Then why not work with him?" you ask, noting the rather obvious fact that the Lancer officer and his supporters are wholly on the other side of the room. "Surely if you both compromise here or there, achieve more together?"

"Because he is too much the cavalry officer!" Hawthorne snaps before realising who he's speaking to. "No offense, my lord. I merely mean to say that Lord Palliser has great difficulty seeing beyond the point of his lance. All of his bright ideas for reforming the fighting units of the army will be for naught if they cannot be properly supported by efficient systems of supply and administration. Yet Palliser is too fixed on what is before him to see what is behind." He shakes his head with a sigh of exasperation. "He has spurred himself to a gallop, and he will not rein in to take a broader view of the situation unless someone stops him."

"I fear you may be underestimating him, my lord," Lady Welles interjects. "I have known Palliser for some years now, and I believe him more perceptive than you give him credit for. He plays the part of the feather-brained cavalier fair enough, but he did not rise to Lieutenant Colonelcy of the Lancers by obstinacy and impetuosity alone, I assure you."

Hawthorne nods, trying his best—and failing—to hide a scowl. "I hope you are right, my lady."

"What of Castermaine, then?" you ask.

"If anything is clear, it is that the Earl of Castermaine is entirely opposed to the very concept of reforming the army," Hawthorne states, "yet I believe that he may be negotiated with, under the right conditions."

"Forgive me, my lord, but those two statements seem diametrically opposed to one another."

"Castermaine's opposition to the Commission is founded upon the same assumption as the opposition of his principal, the Duke of Wulfram, that any attempt at reform will necessarily oblige the Crown to increase its expenditures," Hawthorne explains. "Do you understand what I mean?"

You nod. "If Castermaine's sole objection is purely upon grounds of expenditure, then any suggested reform which might lead to a reduction of costs may obtain his support."

Hawthorne does not nod back, but he does offer you a grim little smile. "Exactly so, my lord."

[X] "I think I'd best speak to the others as well."

Hawthorne nods. "Of course, my lord, as you like."

"It was good to see you again, my lord," Lady Welles adds with a faint little smile. "I give you joy of the day."

"And you as well, my lady," you reply with a smile of your own. "If you will excuse me…"

You return to the centre of the room. You're not sure if it's the heat of summer or some other cause, but you find yourself feeling rather fatigued. Looking around, you don't think you're the only one, either.

It may be necessary to choose the next group you would wish to speak with carefully. Judging by the way things are going, you may not have a chance to choose another.

-​

[X] I should like to see what Palliser and his group are discussing.

You approach Lord Palliser's group to find the man himself well into the process of holding forth on a topic which he quite clearly has a very strong opinion on.

"—far as I'm concerned, it just ain't feasible!" he exclaims as some of his fellows nod in agreement. "All well and good to tell a battalion officer that he got full freedom t'act on his orders, but it ain't do him no good if he's blunderin' about blind and deaf, eh? A sizeable body of foot need scouts to give 'em a way to know wot the enemy's at. Otherwise, it don't matter what commands 'e's allowed t'give. It's like to be a wrong one."

"If a lack of scouts is the problem, why don't we give 'em some?" a bright-eyed major in a line cavalry officer's jacket asks. "Put a troop of horse with each battalion, have 'em do the scouting work."

"Mix up foot and horse at the battalion level?" someone exclaims incredulously. "I can't see how that would be a good idea. Each colonel would effectively be commanding two regiments instead of one."

"Mount some of the infantry, then," the cavalry major replies, undeterred. "Train half a company in each battalion to act as mounted scouts. All we'd need to do is give 'em horses."

Palliser gives the speaker a dubious look. "Horses, and remounts, and fodder, and tack, and all th' men needed to maintain it." He shakes his head. "No, it'd be a nightmare to supply, ain't do it at all. It'd have to be scouts on foot. A company of quick men in loose order, moving in pairs, say…one in each battalion, wot?"

The major's mouth is already half open in reply when his eyes catch upon you. "And you are?"

Before you can answer, Lord Palliser steps forward. "Lord Reddingfield, of the Dragoons, eh?" His voice is genial. "Damn fine t'see you here, wot? Can never have too many fighting officers in a spot like this, eh?"

Again you are subject to a round of introductions, a rapid procession of ranks, regiments, and names. Some almost hasten to introduce themselves once they realise who you are, one going so far as to shake your hand.

"You'll have t'make a bit of a roundabout t'introduce y'self to the others, m'fraid," Palliser tells you apologetically as he nudges his chin at the other groups around the room. "Seems we've already had a bit of a schism, wot?"

[X] "What was it you were discussing before, about scouts?"

"Bit more complex than that, I'm afraid," Palliser explains. "We was talkin' about unshacklin' th'cavalry from th'infantry, for all our sakes."

The Lancer's companions nod approvingly, and you have somewhat of an inkling why.

"Unshackling, my lord?" you ask before hazarding a guess. "You mean in the way that a unit of horse must spend much of its time providing reconnaissance and picquets for the infantry?" It was an encumbrance which you and your Dragoons had been saddled with more than once in Antar.

Palliser nods. "So y'see, by giving th'infantry their own force of scouts, we'd no longer be required to operate next t'them, and they'd no longer need t'operate next t'us. They may march one way, and we may ride th'other. We're both free to play to our strengths, instead of coverin' each other's weaknesses. Goes with th'basic principles, wot?"

[X] "You mentioned basic principles. What do you mean?"

"It means, in plain speech, makin' th'fightin' parts of th'army more effective," Palliser replies simply. "There ain't nothin' wrong with the system of the army, at its heart, it's only that the parts that have to fight ain't bein' used to their full advantage. What we mean t'do is t'allow the battalions and squadrons facin' the enemy t'do so more effectively."

"And how do you mean to do that?"

"It means making individual battalions and squadrons more versatile and giving the men in charge of those battalions and squadrons th'authority t'do what they see as best without havin' to run to higher command to beg for support," Palliser explains. "We're thinkin' to revise the manual of arms and individual trainin' for the common soldier, t'increase levels of readiness and drill at the company and troop levels, t'introduce the sort of new tactics the Experimental Corps and y'own Dragoons played about with in Antar."

You nod, thinking you understand now. "In short, you mean to focus our efforts on reforming those parts of the army most directly involved in fighting the enemy?"

Palliser smiles. "Well, you ain't ready a lance for war by sharpenin' its butt, eh?"

[X] "What is your opinion of the other groups?"

Palliser takes a moment to consider his response. "Lord Hawthorne's got a few interesting ideas, I think. Ones we ought t'consider perhaps. We share th'same goals, at least."

"If you and Hawthorne share goals in common, why aren't your respective groups working together?"

"Because he's a clerk," another Lancer officer replies contemptuously. "A miserable little desk-helmsman who's never smelled powder smoke in his life. He thinks wars are won with wagons and schedules and numbers on charts, as if those of us who actually have to do the fighting are wooden blocks on a map."

Lord Palliser gives you an apologetic look and directs one at Hawthorne's back for good measure. "Not the way I'd put it, but that's the right of it, m'afraid. Hawthorne's ideas are all well and good, but it ain't much use organising an army if its soldiers don't fight well."

You nod. Palliser has a point there. "What of Castermaine?" you ask.

The Lancer officer purses his lips in thought for a moment. "Odd duck, that one. Quite clear he ain't willing to accept any sort of change wot requires increases in spending, so I ain't sure what he's doing here."

"Do you think he means to obstruct the Commission?"

Palliser frowns. "I ain't know t'be sure. It would certainly seem so, but if he wants to scupper the Commission, there's better places to do it, wot?"

"You mean like in the Cortes, when the Commission submits its report?" No matter what the Army Reform Commission actually decides upon, it will still need the approval of the Cortes to be funded.

"You have me exact," Palliser replies grimly. "This Commission ain't popular in the Cortes, and even if we do our utmost t'rally sympathy and support, gettin' any of our reforms t'pass would be a damn close-run thing."

"If that's the case, then what is he doing here?" you ask.

At that, Palliser only shrugs. "Damn me if I know, wot? If I did, I'd tell you."

[X] "I suppose I'd best go."

"I suppose we all ought to, soon enough," Palliser notes as he idly fans himself with one gloved hand. "Damned hot in here, I say."

Now that he brings it up, it does seem rather warm, the combination of thick military uniforms, an airless room, and the heat of an Aetorian summer. Palliser himself has it worst of all, the elaborate frogging of his uniform drooping and the white cloth under his armpits stained dark with sweat.

"Quite so, my lord," you agree. "If you will excuse me?"

This time, when you return to the centre of the room, the Commission is already on the verge of breaking up. You suppose it's for the best; it would have been impossible to remain in such sweltering conditions for much longer. It's hard enough to think straight now, let alone discuss matters of importance.

You spend the final round of pleasantries and farewells nearly boiling in your own sweat and having pleasant memories for the first time of the bitter cold of the Antari winter. It comes as a profound relief when you're at long last able to make your escape to the marginally cooler air of the outside, and thence to the welcome shade of your coach.

It is only when you have returned to your townhouse that you finally find yourself cool enough to think straight again, to reflect upon what you saw in that small, airless room in the bowels of Grenadier Square.

You've seen how the battle lines are drawn now, three separate visions of what the King's Army could be.

And only time will tell whose vision—if any—will triumph in the end.

Time, and perhaps your own actions as well.

-​

The Cortes continues to meet regularly through the months of summer. Although the furor over Wulfram's proposed budget has at last calmed a little, every new debate seems to possess the same sides, with the Duke of Wulfram's supporters taking on the cause of one party and the King's followers rising in defence of the other.

One could almost think it was all being done on purpose, with one party standing opposed to the side championed by the other not out of any moral conviction or institutional loyalty, but simply because their political rivals were on the other side.

All this, of course, places you in something of a situation.

Despite all the events of the past few months, you're still seen as something of a neutral party, a free agent, yet to align yourself with one of the major powers of the chamber. How you vote now may bring you into the orbit of one faction or the other. Apply yourself correctly, and you may find further opportunities to turn the current dispute betwixt the supporters of the King and the Duke of Wulfram to your advantage.

Or you may find yourself drawn into an unwanted conflict in which you'll have little means to protect yourself.

[ ] [VOTE] I will vote with Wulfram, regardless of the matter at hand.
[ ] [VOTE] My vote is the King's, for better or worse.
[ ] [VOTE] Such blatant factionalism offends me. I vote my conscience!
[ ] [VOTE] I shall take care to stay out of any partisan entanglements.
[ ] [VOTE] I must see what benefit I might secure for my home region.
[ ] [VOTE] A divided Cortes? Oh, there is profit to be made here!

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [VOTE] My vote is the King's, for better or worse.

So be it.

The next few weeks make your position in the Cortes clear. The issue to be debated does not matter. Whether it be a debate over shipping licenses, the certification of mining companies, bills of divorcement, or simple matters of procedure, you vote as the King and his closest supporters do, without exception.

It doesn't go unnoticed. With most of the Cortes already entering the orbit of one party or the other, it seems you were considered one of the few remaining Lords still neutral. Your perceived commitment to the King's faction actually makes you something of a topic of discussion, at least for a week or two.

Of course, not all that is spoken about you is positive. Your new position is met with as much dismay by the Duke of Wulfram's party as it is approval by the King's. That, you suppose, is the price of choosing a side at all.

Now, you can only hope it is the right one.

The Cortes concludes at the end of the summer, having dealt with half a hundred minor issues and almost no major ones. With the harvest season on the horizon, the atmosphere in the chamber seems unchanged, save for the fact that the ranks of both Wulfram's supporters and the King's have swelled enormously. Few Lords of the Cortes seem entirely neutral now, and fewer still remain such every day.

And in the meantime, the Duke of Wulfram's budget has been rejected, the war taxes are still in place, and the Chamber seems even more divided and hostile than it was before.

You can only hope things come to some kind of resolution when the Cortes meets again next year.

​

The next week brings a fresh packet of letters, including an update from your estate manager.

It seems that the immediate consequences of the war in Antar are still making themselves known, as your estate manager discovered when he found your fief suddenly in the presence of a large group of Antari refugees. They had evidently been captured by the King's Army during the war, and through a bizarre sequence of events, found themselves without food, homes, or protection in a foreign land.

Loch, perhaps feeling some sort of responsibility for his countrymen, had done all that he could to shelter them, even against the vociferous protests of your own tenants.

It is certainly a worrying development, and you cannot help but wonder at Loch's reasoning for having evidently spent your money and antagonised your people for the sake of a group of foreigners who do not share your traditions or religion. You remind yourself that for all that Loch might be unfamiliar with Tierran customs, he had overseen a landed estate of his own in his old country, and that he must know what he's doing.

With a troubled mind, you move on to the financial reports…

-​

Your estate manager, Karol of Loch, reports that 2 new rent-paying households moved into your fief in the past few months. He also reports that 7 households have been driven away from your fief by their dissatisfaction with the way things are being run, and 5 households have left your fief in search of better opportunities elsewhere.

Your estate manager also reports that your fief's relatively low rents allow your tenants some measure of surplus coin, which invariably offers some small increase to prosperity and contentment. He also reports that he has ordered the repair of the wall around your manor, both to improve the appearance of your ancestral home and to render it proof against any would-be intruders.

In addition, your agent reports that a blight has struck some of the crops in your fief this year. While prompt action by your tenants saved the majority of the harvest, they have only done so by uprooting and burning the affected fields.

While the reduction in your fief's harvest for the year isn't a devastating one, it's certain to have some adverse affect upon the prosperity of your tenants.

With the latest reports taken into account, your current financial situation is as follows:

Bi-Annual Revenues
Rents: 405 Crown
Personal Income: 180 Crown

Bi-Annual Expenditures
Estate Wages: 175 Crown
Food and Necessities: 75 Crown
Luxuries and Allowances: 150 Crown
Groundskeeping and Maintenance: 50 Crown
Townhouse Rent: 135 Crown
Townhouse Wages: 60 Crown
Interest Payments: 144 Crown
Special Expenses: 500 Crown

Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -704 Crown

New Loans: 0 Crown

Current Wealth: 677 Crown
Projected Wealth Next Half-Year: -27
You will incur a negative balance within the next six months. If you do not rectify this by taking a loan immediately, you will face bankruptcy.

What do you wish to do?

[ ] [DEBT] I mean to ask for a modest loan; 1000 crown, perhaps?
[ ] [DEBT] I am in need of a sizeable loan, 2500 crown or so.
[ ] [DEBT] I shall require a great deal of money; 5000 crown, at least.
[ ] [DEBT] I'll draw upon my connections to arrange a new loan on more favourable terms.

[ ] [REPAY] I wish to pay off some of my family's debts. (Write in)
[ ] [REPAY] I wish to turn my attention to other matters.

-​

[X] I would like to manage my investments.

Your membership in the Shipowners Club gives you many privileges: access to the trading floor, the services of a broker, a place to discuss the normally taboo subject of finances without a hushed tone or an abashed look. Yet perhaps the greatest privilege provided by the golden pin of an investor is to, well, invest—not only in short-term enterprises like individual trading voyages, but in entire shipping concerns, in manufactories, in cotton plantations, powder mills, canals, coal mines, and all manner of other things capable of delivering not just a single dividend, but a constant stream of profit.

Of course, you wouldn't be dirtying your own hands with the exchange of certificates and banknotes; that's what your broker is for. Yet Blanco must ultimately answer to your direction, so it is you who must make the decisions in the end, ones which will not only determine the health of your own investments, but potentially the state of the entire Shipping Exchange.

"It ought to be recalled, my lord, that it isn't so much the reality of profit and loss which determines the state of the Exchange, but belief in profit and loss," you recall him explaining. "When one is seen to be investing heavily into the Exchange, others take note; they sense that you've found some source of profit, and thus are more willing to pay higher prices to seek profit of their own. If one is seen taking all of his money out, then others will take note, assume one knows something they don't, and begin to jettison their own investments before they too begin to drop."

Needless to say, you had responded to such a thing with considerable scepticism. "Do you mean to say that the confidence or reticence of an investor might affect the profitability of the Exchange as a whole? That seems very far-fetched."

"It is more than what I say, it is the reality," Blanco replied. "One so firm that the other investors may well judge you by it. Be seen to invest heavily, and they'll believe you to be adding to the profitability of their own ventures. Be seen to withdraw, and you might likewise be reckoned to be reducing the confidence of the Exchange. Sell quickly enough, and you may well garner the animosity of the other investors."

And the animosity of your fellow investors is the very last thing you need, especially since you're almost entirely reliant upon your fellow investors for intelligence as to which investments are likely to be the most profitable. As a result, your ability to turn a profit on any sort of investment relies much upon the goodwill and friendship of your fellow investors—a good reason to stay in the good graces of the club as a whole.

You currently have 0 crown in investments.

You can afford to invest 677 crown. Do not forget that larger investments may boost overall confidence in the Exchange as a whole—and improve the opinion of other Shipowners' Club members.

How much do you intend to invest?

[ ] [INVEST] I would like to invest 1000 crown.
[ ] [INVEST] I mean to invest 2500 crown.
[ ] [INVEST] I am investing 5000 crown.
[ ] [INVEST] I must think upon the matter more.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [DEBT] I'll draw upon my connections to arrange a new loan on more favourable terms.

You order your valet to fetch pen and paper before pondering your options.

After all the years you spent as a soldier, it seems almost natural to first consider the possibility of drawing upon your connections within the army. After all, your name still carries a considerable amount of weight at Grenadier Square, and there are certainly those still resident within the army's administration who would act promptly to ensure that a man they consider one of their own isn't overly burdened by his debts.

Then, there is the possibility of applying to those friends you've made within Aetorian high society as a whole, those who would consider your general reputation to be guarantor enough of your good faith should you ask them for a favour. Of course, the nature of such a request is that it would almost certainly become salon gossip within weeks, though whatever damage your reputation will suffer may well be a necessary price to pay in the end.

Perhaps most saliently of all, there's the Shipowners to draw upon. After all, the ability to call one's fellow club members for assistance in a confidential manner is part of the reason Aetoria's clubs exist in the first place, and you certainly have the means to take advantage. While resorting to such measures would almost certainly seem like a show of weakness before the other members, you can be fairly certain that word of your actions won't go past that.

Of course, you suppose you don't need to rely upon such measures to secure a loan. Calling on your bankers directly may lead to an increase in your interest rates, but their professional codes of confidentiality would ensure that your precise financial situation will remain betwixt them and you, where it can do no damage to your social standing.

Perhaps that would still be best…

[ ] [LOAN] I'll call upon my connections at Grenadier Square.
[ ] [LOAN] I will see what friends in the capital are willing to assist me.
[ ] [LOAN] Perhaps the Shipowners can offer me some assistance here.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [LOAN] I'll call upon my connections at Grenadier Square.

You quickly send off a series of letters to your connections within the army's administration. Reminding them of the service you've already rendered the Crown, you lay out a brief description of what you require from them—and hint that events may reflect badly on the army as a whole should an officer on half-pay be known to be in dire financial straits—especially ones dire enough to potentially necessitate the sale of his commission.

It doesn't take long to receive a reply, and then another, and then a third. Armed with such support, you quickly negotiate the provision of an extra three thousand crown in loans—though you suspect that your associates won't be quite so willing to help the next time.

-​

Bi-Annual Revenues
Rents: 405 Crown
Personal Income: 180 Crown

Bi-Annual Expenditures
Estate Wages: 175 Crown
Food and Necessities: 75 Crown
Luxuries and Allowances: 150 Crown
Groundskeeping and Maintenance: 50 Crown
Townhouse Rent: 135 Crown
Townhouse Wages: 60 Crown
Interest Payments: 144 Crown
Special Expenses: 500 Crown

Total Net Income (Next Six Months): -704 Crown

New Loans: 3,000 Crown

Current Wealth: 3,677 Crown
Projected Wealth Next Half-Year: 2,973

What do you wish to do?

-​

[X] I should send some money home, to help improve my fief.

Were you physically present at your estate, you would be able to order the construction of new additions and improvements directly. However, as you're in Aetoria, you shall have to rely upon the judgement and good offices of your estate manager to order what construction he sees fit.

Of course, your estate manager cannot order any construction at all unless he has the money to afford it, and as your manager has no substantial independent wealth of his own, the burden of payment falls upon you, as lord of the estate. Should you wish your estate improved in any way, you shall have to send him enough money to pay for it.

At the moment, you have 3,677 crown available to send to your estate manager. So far, you've sent a total of 500 crown to your estate in total. Judging by his current reports, your manager should have something like 0 crown currently available to him.

According to his report, your estate manager is currently planning on further strengthening your fence.. To do this, he'll require an additional 1,000 crown.

How much will you send?

[ ] [LOCH] Call me Donald Trump, because that wall's going to be yuge! (-1,000 Crown)
[ ] [LOCH] I'll not send Loch more money to fund his fence-building habit.
[ ] [LOCH] I'll write in an amount of my own.