Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [REPAY] I wish to pay off some of my family's debts. (875 crowns)
[X] [LOCH] I'll send Loch the thousand crown needed to repair the stables and outbuildings.

Click to shrink...

The approach of winter comes differently to Aetoria this year. Though there's a steady stream of noble households and their servants headed back out to their estates as the weeks pass, the vast exodus which usually all but empties the city after the onset of autumn is nowhere to be seen. With the Cortes still theoretically in session and the survival of the year's budget still resting upon news of the Kian treaty, many of those who would have retreated to their seats for the winter now remain in their townhouses, and their families and servants remain with them.

And so, even as the first snows begin to fall, the city's roads remain crowded with not only Aetoria's permanent residents, but the rare sight of the coaches and palanquins of those who have chosen to remain. Despite the colder nights and shorter days, the capital remains as crowded as ever.

Soon, that proves to be a problem.

Aetoria as a whole has rarely had problems feeding itself through the winter, but this winter there are twice as many people within the city as there were last time. It only takes a few weeks before you begin to note the rise in food expenditures in your townhouse accounts. You suspect you're not the only one. More than once, your valet is forced to inform you, with a rather apologetic look, that your cook can no longer find certain ingredients necessary for whatever you had chosen to eat that evening, and thus must be compelled to beg your forgiveness and request that you choose something else for dinner.

And if things are bad for you, then for the baneless poor, they are far, far worse.

Even in the best of times, the poor of the Old City are hard-pressed to afford food and shelter. The destruction of the anti-treaty riots and the food shortage caused by the continued presence of much of the Cortes nobility have only made things worse. Already, the Seekers of the Order of Saint Octavia are telling stories of the most desperate deprivation among the city's poor to any who will listen, of families starved to nothing in their homes, of men hunting rats for dinner and women sinking to the most shameful acts for crusts of bread.

Of course, the Orders-Succourant are not standing idle. More than once, they come to your door to ask for donations to help establish soup kitchens and dispensaries in the worst-afflicted parts of the Old City.

You suppose it's your duty to contribute, especially when it is the actions of your own class which have visited such miseries upon those less fortunate. It would certainly do your reputation no ill to be seen as a charitable friend to the commons, and if it helps alleviate some of the suffering in the poorest parts of the city, it would seem only the right thing to do.

If you can afford it.

[X] What would be an appropriate donation? I should make some inquiries.

You take the chance to pose a few questions to the Seekers which have come to your door. You do so discreetly, of course—you do not give the impression that you're doing anything as uncouth as trying to trade coin directly for reputation. Thankfully, it doesn't take much time or effort to get answers.

From what you understand, it would normally not be considered so very ill for a baron of your position and estate to donate very little, or even nothing at all. However, given the rapid succession of crises which appear to be afflicting the city, you suspect that expectations have changed rather dramatically for the current season. From what you can gather, anything less than a donation of fifty crown would likely do your reputation some harm.

You could always donate more, of course. In fact, the Seekers you question practically beg it of you. It seems that the situation in the Old City has left Orders-Succourant quite hard-pressed, and if they are to be believed, their current level of regular donations and endowments are nowhere near what is needed. They're even so forward as to assure you that a greater donation—perhaps of a few hundred crown—would go so far as to be given pride of place in the donor rolls put up in front of their Order's chapterhouses.

An even greater donation, you suspect, would lead to some even more grandiose recognition, perhaps enough to make you truly recognised as an exemplar among your fellow Lords of the Cortes. It is certainly worth considering, if you can afford it.

[ ] [DONATE] Yes, I think I will make a donation.
-[ ] 2,000 crown
-[ ] 1,000 crown
-[ ] 400 crown
-[ ] 150 crown
-[ ] 50 crown

[ ] [DONATE] I can do no charitable giving this season.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [DONATE] Yes, I think I will make a donation.

You have no intention of simply allowing the poorest of the city's inhabitants to starve this winter, not when you comparatively have so much and they so little. So, you make up your mind to give. The only question that remains is how much.

After a cursory examination of your accounts, you come to the conclusion that you have 2,491 in ready funds at the moment.

How much of that will you donate to the starving poor?

[X] 400 crown

You've not done things by half-measures, at least if the expression on the next Seeker to arrive at your door is any indication. Indeed, his face seems to all but light up as he reads the amount you've written on your bank draught. He leaves with a stream of profuse thanks, along with a promise that your generous contribution will be recognised.

And so it is. Within days, your name is given pride of place amongst the list of donors posted before the Order of Saint Octavia's main chapterhouse, printed amongst those of some of the wealthiest lords in the Unified Kingdom.

Needless to say, the presence of your own name amidst such company does your reputation no small amount of good, but more important than any of the praise you've received is the knowledge that your donation will be going to those in direst need. That, to you, is recompense enough.

-​

As the weeks pass, and as rain gives way to sleet and then snow, life in Aetoria seems to settle into something like a routine. You pass the days writing letters, administering the staff of your townhouse, and considering the possibility of bringing your sister to the capital for the next year's season, with an eye to finding her a suitor.

You cannot say it is anything approaching what might be considered normalcy. The streets are still crowded with people, even if they are covered over with ice and snow. The poor are still starving, the King is still absent, and on clear days, you can look out from your window to the Old City, to see the gaps where buildings once stood before they were burned down in the riots, or during their violent suppression.

It is in the faces of the people, too. There's a tension in the faces of your staff which had not been there before, even during the height of the autumn's unrest. You're no great student of human sensibility, but even you can see it, like a case of nerves in slow but inexorable motion.

You feel it too, but not in the way which your servants do. For you, the sensation is almost a comforting one, a feeling which seems to focus your mind rather than irritate it.

It's the sort of thing you felt when you were at war: that awful, low-burning terror of knowing that the enemy is all around you and could strike at any moment. That awful realisation of an ominous future, creeping towards you with an inevitability that nothing under creation can keep at bay.

Yes, you remember that feeling well, and perhaps you can understand why it has returned to you.

For the enemy is all around you, and they no longer have any compunctions about making themselves known.

-​

By all legal definition, the Cortes is still in session. Every morning, the doors are still opened, the Lords still sit, and the floor is still opened, and those in attendance are still invited to debate the matters of the day.

But nobody does: there's no point in doing so. No vote can be held without the King present to give consent or issue a veto to the result. Only when he returns can the great questions of the past year be answered. Only when he returns can the governance of the realm resume, for better or for worse.

Until then, the factions in the chamber engage in a wild jockeying for position, each party trying their best to secure an advantageous position for themselves before the King finishes his tour. Wulframite and Royalist grapple for power on the chamber floor, sometimes literally, animated in the knowledge that whoever gains the upper hand now may have great influence over the King's policy upon his return.

It is a fight which you quickly find yourself dragged into. The Duke of Wulfram's faction knows you as an enemy now, and it quickly becomes clear that they have no qualms in launching attacks against your reputation and integrity, not just in the chamber but also the newspapers and pamphleteers under their control. While their attacks remain relatively mild compared to those brought to bear upon more powerful members of your party, you suspect that it will only be a matter of time before they come down upon you with full force. How long before every misstep or foible is brought to bear against you in the arena of public opinion?

From where you stand, it seems as if your opponents no longer see any merit in attempting to convert you to their side. They seek only to destroy you, perhaps to make an example for those they consider more tractable. If you mean to avoid such abuse, then you can only make yourself less tempting of a target, withdraw from the chamber until things calm down,

Or, you could pay back your tormentors with coin of the same stamp, go after them with the same ferocity they've gone after you, and see how they like it.

[ ] [NEXT] They will not drive me out of the Cortes!
[ ] [NEXT] Sod all this. I'll go to the club instead.
[ ] [NEXT] Perhaps some public acts of charity would improve my reputation?

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [NEXT] They will not drive me out of the Cortes!

Are your rivals really so foolish as to think that their attacks will be enough to drive you to silence or withdrawal? Frankly, the very thought is insulting. You may no longer be a soldier, but you still maintain something of a Dragoon officer's resilience. Saints be damned! It will take more than a few insulting caricatures or a set of calumnies on a broadsheet to shift you. If they mean to force you out, then they'd better start mounting a serious challenge. Until they do, you stay.

The question is, will you ignore your attackers, or go after them?

A full-throated attack on your foes would certainly serve the purpose of putting them on the back foot, and it may serve the double-purpose of advancing the Princess-Royal's plan, as well; it will be hard for Wulfram to recruit more lords to his faction, if they know they'll look forward to an unrestrained verbal beating at your hands.

Then again, the more violently you attack the opposition, the greater an enemy you will make of them, and you suspect that things will not go well for you if the opposing faction decides to focus all of its ire upon you. In that regard, perhaps it might be best not to be too outspoken…

[ ] [CORTES] No, I will go after the opposition with all the powers at my disposal.
[ ] [CORTES] I cannot allow myself to be insulted with impunity.
[ ] [CORTES] I must restrain myself and avoid making myself too obvious a target.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [CORTES] I must restrain myself and avoid making myself too obvious a target.

While you have every intention of remaining within the Cortes through this winter, you have none at all of making the job harder than it would be otherwise, and you have absolutely no doubt at all that antagonising members of the opposing faction quite easily qualifies as the latter.

True, your title and your seat ostensibly make you the equal of any other man in the chamber, but you're not so foolish as to think such equality is more than merely nominal. If you were to make a particular enemy of one of the major powers in the chamber—one possessed of a greater fortune, firmer alliances, and no doubt a stable of printers and pamphleteers to help pursue his vendettas—then you suspect you'll very rapidly find out just how equal you really are.

So, you make sure to keep your head down and avoid any fight you can. When you're insulted indirectly, you pretend that you do not understand. When you're insulted directly, you pretend that you do not hear. Even in your support for the King's policy, you do all you can to avoid taking initiative, lending your voice to your allies' arguments only when you're sure that it will not allow the opposition to consider you a target. Though you do not like the idea of letting insults to your honour go unanswered, it does work: you find yourself the target of no coordinated attacks, no harassment in the broadsheets, no pamphlets bearing crude caricatures of your face.

You suppose that is a victory of a sort, though as the weeks wear on, you cannot help but wonder if this is to be the new status quo, if the only way to remain free of being dogged by your opponents is to effectively hide within your own party for the rest of your political career.

If that's the case, then perhaps it may well be better just to go home to your estates.

-​

As winter yields to spring, it becomes increasingly clear that the situation in the Cortes is slowly shifting in the Duke of Wulfram's favour. His attempts to strengthen his position within the chamber are at last showing an effect, despite the efforts of you and your fellow Royalists.

Yet you cannot say that Wulfram and his party have had an easy time of it. Despite the King's absence, and despite the lack of clear leadership, you and your allies ensure that the gains your opposition makes are marginal and hard-fought. Though the Wulframites now have the initiative, there remains much hope amongst your Royalist allies that the damage may yet be contained—or at least delayed—long enough to find an effective means of pushing back.

Ultimately though, you suppose that any conception of the relative power of the two factions is really only based upon promises and guesswork. A man may claim to follow whatever side he will, but he doesn't prove his true convictions until he must commit those beliefs to action. Only when the results of a formal Cortes vote are announced will the true loyalties of your fellow lords be revealed. Only then will it be known for sure who is Wulframite and who is Royalist in deed as well as word.

And there will be no means of calling a vote until the King returns from his tour.

It is the King's return which will settle everything. His return will mean your faction will be able to see just how effective it has been in keeping the Duke of Wulfram and his supporters at bay these past few months.

They say his ship has already departed Weathern, and that the King is only a week's sail away from Aetoria. For some, the appointed day of his return seems to hang over their necks like the blade of a headsman's axe. For others, it carries the promise of resurgence, victory, perhaps even a real resolution to the current crisis.

But in fear or in joy, all await in anticipation as the appointed day approaches…

And arrives…

And passes…

The next few days seem to pass as if half-asleep. The business of the Cortes, the club, and all the other organs of society go on, clockwork motions running on silent, derelict inertia. Everyone seems to have half their mind turned towards the sea, waiting for the first sight of a ship that they know to be out there, that must be out there, surely.

And the ships do come, but the excitement of their approach only lasts for a moment, just long enough for someone to realise that it's approaching from the wrong direction, lacks the right sail plan, or is far too small to be the royal flagship.

Then, one morning, a week later, a fast sloop comes from the east, its masts straining every scrap of canvas it can hold.

The news it carries spreads as soon as it touches the quay, like some killing plague. By noon, the whole city knows.

The HMS Rendower has been wrecked off the coast of Weathern.

There were no survivors.

The King is dead.

 

[Rogue Attican]

CHAPTER VII
Wherein the LORD OF THE CORTES is restored to his FORMER condition as an OFFICER of the ROYAL DRAGOONS.​

…it is thus the pleasure of the Office of the Councilor-Militant, that the commission of Alaric, Baron Reddingfield as an officer of the Crown be restored to full active status, with the rank of Lieutenant-colonel in the Royal Dragoon Regiment, and with all honours, incomes, powers, and obligations pertaining to that office restored.

Henceforth, he is ordered to present himself at soonest convenience in a state fit for active service at the Southern Keep, Aetoria. Having done so, he is to place himself at the immediate disposal of His Grace, the Duke of Cunaris, Officer Commanding, the Royal Dragoons until such a time as he is once again made surplus to the Crown's requirements…

-​

The first time you laid eyes upon the Duke of Cunaris was over fifteen years ago, in the entry hall of the Old Fortress of Fernandescourt, when you first reported for duty as a King's Dragoon.

It wasn't a living likeness but a portrait, massive and imposing over the hall as aides and servants scurried to and fro beneath its painted gaze. It had been carefully done, idealised in the way paintings of the powerful so often are, yet even then you suspected that the strength in those broad shoulders and the will in those eyes were less the invention of a painter than a talented imitation of life. Even there, in that great hall in Fernandescourt, you had thought as much.

But the Southern Keep is not Fernandescourt.

Where the Old Fortress stank of horses and raw leather, the Southern Keep smells of dust and rotting wood. It has been half a century since the smaller of Aetoria's two citadels had been used as a real military establishment of any kind. Despite the best efforts of the three recently arrived squadrons of your old regiment, the courtyard is still littered with refuse and debris, the bastions are vacant, and the stone ramparts are draped with white banners.

White banners of mourning, for the death of a king.

The Duke of Cunaris isn't the same, either. The familiar grey-green of his uniform coat seems to hang on his frame as he sits behind his great, dark oaken desk. In truth, you don't think you've ever seen him so grey, so…frail. Even after an Antari lance took from him the use of his legs at Blogia, he had remained a proud tower of strength in the dark days after.

Now, that tower is a burnt-out shell. You cannot answer as to how, only to the fact that it is so.

True, there is some hint of the strength which had once bound those shoulders, some hint of the determination in his gaze, but they are hints only, dull embers glowing beneath the ash of a bone-deep exhaustion. Even Lord Renard, standing behind him with the new insignia of a major on his collar, seems greyer, thinner, colder—the eldest son following the father even now.

"Lord Reddingfield," Cunaris rumbles, his voice at last filling with some semblance of warmth. "I see you have found Aetoria more to your liking than I have. I am pleased to see you well."

[ ] [CUNARIS] "I am well, sir—and very pleased to be under your command once more."
[ ] [CUNARIS] "I am well enough, sir."
[ ] [CUNARIS] "I am ready to receive your orders, sir."

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [CUNARIS] "I am well, sir—and very pleased to be under your command once more."

For a moment, the old Duke's eyes narrow, and you feel an all too familiar tautness betwixt your shoulder blades. Have you made yourself too familiar? Have you given offense?

But no, the next moment, Cunaris' expression grows just a little warmer. "Truth be told, I am very pleased to have you under my command as well," he replies with the smallest of grins. "We'll need as many solid officers as we can get if we are to see through this sorry business, and you may rest assured that I am not displeased to have you."

He shakes his head. "Under normal circumstances, I would not set foot in Aetoria, but the exigencies of the service must come before personal sensibilities, and the King's death has made our task a vital one indeed."

"And what exactly is our task, sir?" you ask. The summons had made no mention of it, save a vague reference to 'the current emergency.'

It is Lord Renard who answers now, his once-guileless smile now cut with just enough world-weariness to twist into a sardonic grin. "Ain't but the simplest thing, and th' most complicated thing of all, my lord: keep the peace."

"Then we must avoid being seen as associated with one faction or the other."

The Duke nods. "Precisely so. Our chiefest priority is to avoid being seen as partial to either party. The Grenadiers have already made themselves unsuitable for the task by proving themselves committed to the Crown's interests and unacceptable in the eyes of the Wulframite party. We have been chosen to reinforce them precisely because we are seen as impartial."

"And are we?" you ask. "Impartial, I mean."

"They think me father is, and that's evidently good enough," Lord Renard replies, with a sidelong look at the man in question. "He ain't ever involved himself too much in Cortes politics, and as far as fellows like Wulfram are concerned, that mean he ain't give a damn about them."

"And as far as it pertains to this duty with which we have been charged with, I don't," the Duke interjects, his voice rising to a semblance of the mighty basso it once was. "And neither will you. If any of us are perceived to be favouring one party, then it shall surely arouse the passions of the other and cause the situation to deteriorate further. That is something which this country may no longer afford, and so any deviation from the strictest impartiality must be avoided." He fixes you with a look of such ferocious determination that for a moment, he seems the Cunaris of ten years ago. "This regiment will keep the peace in this city; not Queen Isobel's peace, not the Duke of Wulfram's peace, the peace. Am I made clear?"

[X] "Queen Isobel? At least that question's been settled."

"Yes, it has," the Duke replies, his expression almost entirely unreadable. "The laws of succession are quite clear. Isobel is Queen."

So she is. The dead King's calculating, sharp-eyed sister is to take his place upon the Gryphon Throne.

You suppose you could think of far worse candidates for the task. Yet knowing what you do of her, you cannot help but suspect that she'll be all too eager to pursue the Crown's antagonism with the Duke of Wulfram with just as much energy as her elder brother. If Cunaris intends for your regiment to keep the peace until cooler heads prevail, then he may well have a hard job of it…

Especially once—

"If that is the case, sir, then do our oaths of service not require us to serve the Queen's interests?" you ask. "If Her H—" You swap the familiar words in your mind half an instant after you begin to say them. "If Her Majesty demands we take her part of the argument against the Duke of Wulfram or his faction, are we not obliged to obey?"

Cunaris does not quite shake his head. "The laws of succession are clear, in this case. The powers those laws convey are not. Even if the Queen commands us to defend her interests, she may not have the authority to do so legally."

Of course.

"Under normal circumstances, a sister or a daughter might inherit a title, but its powers would be held in trust by the Crown or some other intermediary," you realise, fitting the pieces together as you dredge them up one by one from what you remember of inheritance law. "But in this case, there is no intermediary. No one can supersede the Crown in an affair like this, and as there is no legal precedent for such a situation…"

"Precisely," Cunaris replies. "Until the matter is settled, the exact extent of Her Majesty's powers are subject to a great deal of debate. She reigns, but we have yet to see if she rules."

[X] "Speaking of the Queen, is there to be a coronation?"

Cunaris shakes his head. "In view of the current situation, I have advised against it, as have several members of the Queen's Privy Council. It is primarily a matter of…" The Duke's expression grows tinged with disgust. "A matter of money. The Crown's finances are stretched enough as it is. To stage such an expensive instance of pageantry now would all but ensure that this country will not survive to see another.

And you suspect that isn't the only reason, either. Perhaps if the monarchy were as popular as it once was, a lavish coronation would have much cheered the people of the city. But years of Wulframite agitation has turned far too much of the city against the Gryphon Throne, or at least the line which sits upon it. Such a ceremony would only serve to further rouse anger now.

Yes, perhaps there will be no coronation, and perhaps that would be for the better.

[X] "Have we any further information as to the King's death?"

"What have you heard?" Cunaris asks.

"That the King's flagship went down off the coast of Weathern," you reply, "and there were no survivors. Nothing beyond that."

The Duke gives you a sour look. "Then you know precisely as much as anyone else may rightfully claim to know, save the Intendancy."

"They are conducting an investigation?"

Cunaris nods. "Lord Halford has assured me of such, though they have made no substantial findings; not that it has stopped certain disreputable individuals from speculating that the King was assassinated."

That revelation ought to have been a shocking one, but in truth, it is not so far-fetched a theory. Whatever else might be said of him, it couldn't be stated in any seriousness that the King had a shortage of enemies. "Who do they think did it?"

"Damned near everyone," Lord Renard replies with an expression that is almost a sneer. "Some say the Takarans did it t'stop the Kian treaty. Others say the Kian did it t'fabricate an excuse for war. Some say Wulfram did it out of spite, some say th' Queen did it to take th' throne, some even say Warburton, if you could believe that clotheshorse of killing anything that ain't a hare at five paces."

"They are rumours, and scurrilous ones, intended by one faction or another to deal injury to the reputation of their enemies, nothing more," Cunaris continues, his voice filling with a tightly controlled irritation. "I cannot see their circulation as serving any purpose save to render the current situation even more volatile and our own position more precarious. Under no circumstances should such dangerous lies be allowed to propagate among the men. Am I made clear?"

You nod. "Yes, sir."

"Good, then let us speak no more of this."

[X] "Very well, then. What is required of me?"

"Beginning at soonest convenience, the regiment will begin patrolling the city. One squadron will take the Upper City, one the Lower, the third will remain here at the Southern Keep as a reserve," Cunaris begins. "Large thoroughfares will be patrolled by the troops, smaller ones will necessitate the organisation of patrols under the command of a junior officer or a sergeant. Your task will be to break up seditious assemblies, deter acts of violence, and safeguard the lives and property of the city's residents. You will have the authority to impose summary judgement on the baneless and arrest any banebloods should you believe there to be just cause."

The Duke waves a hand to his side, towards his son. "Renard will command First Squadron. Captain Hawkins will retain command of the Third. Officially, I am giving you Second Squadron, which presently includes many of your veterans from Antar. I am also giving you Colour Campos and Captain Garret, who is to serve as your second."

Cunaris pauses for a moment, his chest rising in a deep breath as he leans forward, his eyes meeting yours. "Unofficially, I must also oblige you to act as my second-in-command, my eyes and ears out in the field, as it were. Out of all of my squadron commanders, you are the one with the most experience, so I am entrusting you with authority not only over your own command, but over the other squadrons as well."

For an instant, you look to Lord Renard, all but expecting to be met with some sort of resentment; an understandable sentiment, you suppose, for a man passed over for preferment by his own father.

But no. He only gives you the slightest hint of a grin and a nod, as if he were relinquishing you his space in a queue.

If Cunaris noticed the exchange, then he shows no sign of it. "This regiment has been taken out of barracks after four years of inaction and put to a task it was never intended for. That in itself is a dangerous situation. The fact that we are now at a point where the fate of the Unified Kingdom may rest upon our ability to carry out our orders only exacerbates the problem. Now, least of all, can we afford to work at cross purposes. I am relying upon you to help me ensure that the regiment is able to meet the demands it has been given. I am relying upon you to ensure that we will be seen by this city and its parties as able and impartial keepers of the peace. I…" He gives you the rueful shadow of a smile. "I am relying upon you for a great deal, in truth, but I have every confidence you will be up to the task."

You nod firmly, even as the weight of your new duties presses down on your shoulders like the straps of a full haversack. "Thank you, sir."

"I suspect you would wish to take command at soonest opportunity," the Duke concludes. "If you have any further questions, you may as well ask them now."

[X] "If Captain Garret is to be my second, I should like to know his qualities."

Captain Garret served under your command but briefly whilst the regiment was in Antar. You got scant measure of the man personally, but you've heard more than enough of the stories to have some idea of his personal habits and vices, ones which you cannot imagine to be very helpful to the accomplishment of your current task at hand. Perhaps he has since addressed such weaknesses since you saw him last.

Judging by the Duke's expression, you suspect such a hope to be in vain.

"Garret is an able fighting officer, and were we heading into battle, that might have been enough. Here…" He shakes his head. "You know of his habits, I suspect, and thus you must know that our presence in Aetoria is all too likely to exacerbate them. The man conspires as easily as he breathes, and unless those impulses are adequately restrained, he may well do the peace of the city some injury in his carelessness."

Your eyes narrow. "You want me to keep him on a tight leash?"

"I want you to keep an eye on him," Cunaris replies. "Prevent him from bringing the name of the regiment into disrepute, keep him from conspiring with any undesirable elements; and most importantly of all, prevent him from involving us in the designs of either faction."

"I will try my best, sir."

The Duke nods, his expression grave. "Then let us hope it shall be enough."

[X] "How would you recommend I maintain impartiality, sir?"

The Duke's reply comes with an apologetic, almost pained expression. "The task, I fear, is not so much upholding impartiality as it is maintaining the impression of impartiality in the eyes of the city. Doing so means taking every possible effort to ensure that both the supporters of the Queen and the Duke of Wulfram that we will judge them fairly by their own standards. Favours and punishments must be seen to be in balance. If we must arrest a Queen's man one day, then we must arrest one of Wulfram's the next. Should you be required to mediate a dispute betwixt the two factions, you shall have to do so in a manner which both parties agree is fair, or at least a manner which angers them equally."

"But what if one of those parties is clearly in the wrong?" you protest.

"Then you must do it anyway, sir!" Cunaris all but snaps. "The prospect rankles me as much as it does you—of that one might be assured—yet in this circumstance, it is necessary. The regiment will only be capable of keeping the peace between the two factions because it is seen as above both. Allow the impression to form that we are in the service of one side or the other, and we shall lose any chance of seeing this whole crisis resolved constructively."

The Duke's voice softens, grows gentle in the space of a bare moment. "You have a desire to do right, and that sentiment is nothing but admirable. However, at this moment, the right thing to do is to ensure that the realm weathers this whole wretched matter without any further effusion of blood. The right thing to do is to safeguard the future of the Unified Kingdom. The right thing to do is your duty, of that you must be absolutely certain."

You swallow, hard. It's clear that Cunaris likes the idea of it all no more than you do, but if he's willing to put aside his dislike for the sake of his duty to Crown and Kingdom, you suppose you must be too.

Saints above, has duty always been this complicated? Surely, things were better in Antar, or at least simpler…

Yes, it was simpler then, but that was the work of destroying men, not saving them. Of crushing an enemy, not guarding a peace. Perhaps that's why war seems so clear compared to peace. Perhaps that's why so many men seem to long for it.

[X] "What kind of authority will I have?"

"You will have full authority over Second Squadron, of course," Cunaris replies. "You may command it as if we were at war, and although I would counsel you not to do so under normal circumstances, I would advise you to do so now. The success of our task relies greatly upon the discipline and preparedness of the men, and in that we can afford no lapse."

"What of the other squadrons?" you ask, your gaze shifting to Lord Renard. You suspect that Cunaris is already grooming him to take over as colonel of the regiment. Given the Duke's current state, you cannot imagine that such a prospect would be too far distant. It must rankle now, to be placed under the command of a fellow of relatively little influence and no connection, when the prospect of total authority over the whole of the regiment must seem so almost within his grasp.

Sure enough, there's a moment of silence as the father looks up at the son, and the son looks down towards the father. You cannot know what passes between the two of them in that moment, but it's clearly enough to settle the matter.

"First Squadron will be under your command," Cunaris replies, "as will the Third and the rest of the regiment as well, so long as you don't give me cause to do otherwise."

So there it is. You will effectively have command of the regiment—a position conditional to the Duke of Cunaris' approval, but it will be enough to do what needs to be done.

You hope.

[X] "What sort of state is the regiment currently in?"

"As well as could be expected, given four years of peace," Cunaris replies grimly. "A blade dulls quickly when allowed to rust in its scabbard."

Perhaps, but you suspect that it wouldn't be so difficult to hone that blade again, especially if done by someone who knows how. Whatever the regiment's current state, its ranks are still filled with veterans of the Antari war, men who were not so long ago masters of the soldier's trade. Men who may swiftly and easily restore themselves to their former proficiency, should they be given proper cause.

You rather suspect that part of your new position will involve giving them that reason.

"What measures have already been taken?" you ask, leaving unspoken the question of what remains to be done.

"We began making preparations the moment the orders reached us," the Duke replies. "Our recruiting parties were able to bring our three squadrons almost up to strength with fresh draughts before we departed from Fernandescourt. I have already made arrangements to see the men issued new uniforms. Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Squadrons are now being brought up to strength at Fernandescourt, they will join us here when they are made respectable. Until then, we shall have to make do with what we have."

It's a good start, you cannot deny that. A few weeks of drill to let the veterans remember themselves and teach the new recruits their left foot from their right might be all that's really needed. True, the regiment which results will still be a shadow of the force which came back from Antar, but so long as all goes well, the men will need to do nothing more than look imposing and keep formation as they trot down the streets, and a few weeks' drill will be good enough for that.

If all goes well…

[X] "I have no further questions, sir."

"Then there's one last order of business," Cunaris adds. "This time next week, I have been invited to dine at Wulfram House. That invitation extends to you and the other senior officers of the regiment likewise. As he has married my eldest daughter, Wulfram has framed the invitation as a matter of familial courtesy. You may be assured that it is not his sole motivation."

You can think of half a dozen potential meanings there, none of them entirely welcome. "Sir?"

"I have little doubt that Wulfram intends to gauge the mood of the regiment," the Duke continues, his expression tinged with distaste. "Having failed to solicit my support for his cause these past few years, I suspect he now wishes to see if that neutrality also extends to the men under my command, to see if he might have better luck winning the support of my officers."

You try to keep the smile off your face. "If that's the case, then it would be my pleasure to rebuff him, sir."

The Duke's eyes narrow. "Do not think your own alliances have escaped me, sir," he says tautly. "It is all well and good that you should align yourself with the King, and now the Queen; as a Lord of the Cortes, you have that liberty. However, in this case, you will be attending as an officer of my regiment, and as such, you will ensure that your words and actions reflect its neutrality. As long as you wear that uniform, your duty is to the peace of this city and this country. Any action which may lead Wulfram to think that this regiment may move against him is one which does our ability to keep that peace great injury."

He leans forward in his chair, his expression stern. "As long as you wear that uniform, he is not your enemy, just as he is not my son-by-marriage. Am I made clear?"

"Yes, sir."

The Duke nods, and his features soften. "Then I shall have every confidence in you. Dismissed."

-​

"You know, I'm not sure what I should be feeling right now," Captain Garret murmurs as the two of you stand before the paraded ranks of your new squadron fifteen minutes later. "Envy or relief."

When you left the regiment at the end of the war, it had been a hard, sinewy force, men who had allowed experience and discipline and rough living to turn them into what was arguably the best cavalry in the King's Army.

There are still signs of that now. Many of the veterans which you left behind had remained in the ranks in peacetime, and Cunaris evidently wasn't lying when he promised that Second Squadron would have the largest proportion of them. Even now, you can pick out their faces and the red stripes on their sleeves amongst fresh-faced new recruits among their number.

Yet the half-familiar faces that stare back at you are not the lean, clear-eyed veterans you remember. Now, their faces are sagging from the ravages of drink and dissipation, their cheeks scarred with pox, their bellies and limbs sagging with the weight of what you remember as once being muscle. Men who had once been able to fight and ride for hours in the burning Antari sun are now already seeming to flag after a few minutes' inspection in the midst of a warm Aetorian spring.

Only Captain Garret himself is as you remember him; slim, clear-eyed, his fine features always giving off the faint impression that he's privy to some secret joke at your expense.

"Not quite what you expected, eh?" Garret continues, his tone somewhere between amusement and apology. "I'm sure with enough time, we can get them back up to scratch again."

"Time may not be a luxury we have," replies Captain Hawkins, standing to your other side. "The Colonel wants to begin patrols at soonest opportunity. I suspect the longer we put them off, the worse the situation in the city is going to get."

"Then we must hope their presence on the streets alone will deter any sort of violence," Captain Sandoral observes, quietly appalled. His return to the regiment was almost as recent as yours, and it's clear that the shock of what it has become in his absence hasn't quite worn off. "I fear none of us can answer for what might happen if comes to a fight."

"I would place even odds," Captain Blaylock replies, his look of disgust both obvious and complete. "Assuming that ours were all sober and ahorse, and they were unarmed, and half of them were children, and we had the numbers by two to one."

Garret looks to you with an almost cat-like grin. "Well then, it seems we have our work cut out for us—or rather, you do, sir."

[X] "Are the other squadrons also this bad?"

"Yes and no, I suspect," Garret replies after a moment's thought. "First Squadron is closer to strength, but it also has the greatest proportion of new men. They haven't picked up the veterans' bad habits yet, but I suspect they aren't quite entirely trained either, so it will be insolence and ignorance, rather than dissolution and indolence that are their main problems."

"And Third Squadron?" you ask, turning to Hawkins.

"Third Squadron is the opposite, sir," he reports, with something that is almost like pride. "I daresay we've done the best in maintaining drill and discipline, which wouldn't be so much of a problem were we not so sorely understrength."

"Still?" The Third had spent much of the war barely above half strength, but that was more due to the harsh and disreputable nature of the assignments it was given—not to mention the harsh and disreputable reputation of its commanding officer, though it was one which was as much a function of Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta's circumstances of birth as it was his style of command. Yet it's been half a decade since then. Surely such matters have been rectified under its new officer commanding?

By the way that Hawkins shakes his head, it's clear that the case is anything but. "I fear the Third's record in Antar gave us a reputation, both with the Colonel and the men themselves. We are, I suspect, given lowest priority for replacements and reinforcements, and that which we do receive often arrange to have themselves transferred to the other squadrons, where the discipline is more lax and the duties easier."

Captain Hawkins doesn't quite look pointedly at Captain Garret when he says it, but the other man apparently caught the implication regardless.

"One could hardly be blamed for maintaining peacetime standards in a time of peace," Garret replies easily. "Who could have expected any of this?" he asks, waving one hand to encompass his surroundings.

This time Hawkins does reply with a pointed glance, his silence more than eloquence enough to offer a reply.

Garret lets out a sigh before turning back to you. "Well then, there you have it, sir. The First is closest to strength, but most raw. The Third is most ready, but is grievously understrength. That puts the Second somewhere in between the two."

It's something, better than what your worst fears might have been. Garret may be right in saying you have your work cut out for you, but that doesn't mean the task is hopeless.

[X] "Shouldn't Sir Caius also be here?"

There are few men on familiar terms with Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta, either due to his deathborn-bastardry or simply his rather hard personality. Indeed, aside from Hawkins, you don't think there's any other officer in the regiment on friendlier terms with him than you. Even so, his absence is a bit of a mystery. After all, as quartermaster, the regiment's supplies of ammunition, equipment, and rations are all his responsibility. One would think his presence to be required at a time like this.

"He is still in Fernandescourt," Hawkins answers. "Cunaris has him tallying carbines for the new recruits he's raising."

"Damn shame," Garret replies, the corner of his mouth turned downwards in something of a frown. "We could use a fellow like him, especially now." He gives you an almost conspiratorial look. "You wouldn't think it of the fellow, but he's actually a damned good quartermaster. For all of the regiment's other current shortcomings, we've got plenty of powder and shot."

"Short on carbines though, and sabres," Sandoral points out. "I can see half a dozen missing. That man there, rear rank, second file from the right, he's missing his helmet too."

"That is due to no shortcoming on the quartermaster's part, of that you may be assured," Hawkins replies, his tone vaguely affronted. "Third Squadron is fully equipped. If the men of Second Squadron insist upon selling their weapons and equipment for drink and opium and poor company, then that is the fault of their officers."

For an instant, you almost expect Garret to call Third Squadron's captain out then and there, regulations be damned. But judging by the somewhat sly grin on your own second's face, their relations are congenial enough for such remarks to be more banter than insult.

"Men are rational creatures," Garret replies airily. "They do as they think benefits them the most. They can hardly be blamed for trading the accoutrements of war for the pleasures of peace when the former seems so distant and the latter so present."

"Doesn't seem so distant now, does it?" Blaylock all but snarls. "I never thought I'd say it, but we really could do with the bastard now. Can't understand why Cunaris would leave him in Fernandescourt, when we may well have such need of him."

Neither can you, but perhaps you'll have a chance to find out.

[X] "I don't suppose it'd be too much to hope for this all to blow over."

"I can't say that would be an entirely unwelcome prospect," Garret replies drily. "Personally speaking, sir, I would rather prefer it if it didn't come to blood in the streets, with us caught in the middle." He shrugs. "I suppose we can only hope the Queen comes to her senses and negotiates with Wulfram, that's the only way I can see this whole mess ending."

Perhaps, but you've seen enough of Queen Isobel to know that there's likely to be little chance of that.

Captain Blaylock, on the other hand, seems to be of a rather different mind. "It seems to me that Wulfram could end this in the same manner. Perhaps it is he who ought to see sense and negotiate with the Queen."

"I fear I cannot see that happening," Sandoral replies dubiously. "He's had his chance these past four years, and he never takes the opportunity."

Blaylock's eyes narrow, ever so slightly, his voice taking on the barest tinge of indignation. "And that means the Queen should?"

Sandoral shakes his head. "It's not a matter of 'should.' Her Majesty is not yet well-established on the Gryphon Throne, and she may well lack the allies in the Cortes which her brother the King was once able to marshal. It may be the more sensible course of action to offer concessions now, regroup, and press the matter again when her position is more secure."

"A fool's hope," Blaylock replies contemptuously. "Her Majesty cannot afford to show weakness now, it is what her foes expect, doubly so because she's a woman. If she allows herself to be knocked about now, she'll be giving them leave to do so for the rest of her life."

"And if she doesn't show some mind to offer concessions, the present crisis will only worsen." Sandoral lets out a sigh of resignation. "I suppose we shall never agree on this matter, not that it is of any relevance. I do not see the sentiments of two captains without commands capable of shifting the reality of the matter one way or the other. If Her Majesty deems it fit to negotiate with Wulfram, then perhaps the issue may be resolved. If not…"

If not, then Wulfram may well have to be brought to heel before his intransigence causes the ruin of the country…

[X] "Enough of this. To work."

It's been a long time since you were a soldier, yet you find your thoughts slipping almost immediately into familiar channels. There's no need to think on what must be done or how to do it. The answers simply come to you, as if you'd known all along.

"Captain Blaylock, I want an accounting of the available stocks of shot and powder," you begin, your voice crisp with the authority of command. "Captain Sandoral. I want First Squadron's strength tallies and sick lists, both to be submitted to me within the hour."

The two officers snap to attention almost immediately. With sharp salutes and quiet "yes sir"s, they depart without an instant of delay.

It seems you're not the only one falling into old patterns.

"Captain Hawkins, I shall require the same for Third Squadron," you continue before turning to your own second-in-command. "Captain Garret. I shall require a tour of the stables and the living quarters of the men. After that, I would like you to have the squadron mount up and go through the evolutions. Let me see what I'm working with…"

-​

The next few days pass in a blur of exertion and exhaustion. Every morning, you linger in your townhouse only long enough to render yourself presentable and throw on your uniform before stepping immediately into your coach to arrive at the Southern Keep before the reveille sounds. Every night, you return home only to the pale glow of the gas lamps, drawn and exhausted. The regular routines of city life which once occupied your day are gone now. There's no more time for the Shipowners, for coffeehouses, for broadsheets, for letters from home, or even for meals of any variety save that of the simplest and most expedient sort. All of it has been emptied out, like the summer jackets of a winter wardrobe, in service to the one sole purpose that matters: the restoration of your command into a state fit for action.

It is a difficult task, to be sure, but perhaps not impossible. True, much has decayed over the past years of peace, but every so often, you can still catch a glimmer of the terrible, deadly machine which you left behind in Antar—a straight back here, a well-oiled carbine there—a faint reassurance that however rusted the gearwheels and however rotten the belts, there is some chance that the even the most broken machine might be repaired.

And there are some parts which need little repair at all.

If anything, Colour Campos has grown more comfortable in his rank, not less. He murmurs less, bellows more, and still holds his head up high. When you assume command of Second Squadron on that first day, he falls in behind you with all the intrusiveness of a breath, ready to relay your orders, as if your absence from the regiment had been but for an hour, and not nearly four years.

It seems to have something of an effect upon the men. After that, they stand a bit straighter, their salutes come a bit quicker. You're not sure what your Colour Sergeant said or did, but evidently, his mere presence at your side is enough to serve some purpose.

You cannot deny that it's had some effect upon you, as well. Whatever else, you can rest assured in knowing that you'll have your Colour's support.

And given the task that has been placed before you, that support will be much needed, indeed.

It only takes you the space of two days to achieve a reasonable idea of your command's qualities. When you do, you cannot help but look upon the veterans of your squadron almost the way you would see an aged man whom you last saw in his prime. However stooped and withered by time and inactivity, there are still signs of the strengths that once were. Despite all the ravages of peace, there remain the vestiges of the men your old Dragoons once were.

But only the vestiges.

Your Dragoons were never the most tautly drilled cavalry in the King's Army, but they made a very good accounting of themselves. By the end of the war, you could count upon their steadiness readily enough. Now, they're as shaky as you've ever seen them, with every movement and evolution ragged and uncoordinated.

At least their morale is better. In Antar, you could have taken your men's high spirits as an article of faith. Through cold, through heat, through battle and fatigue, you could be absolutely sure that the good cheer of your men would endure. Now, four years of peace and inactivity have reduced that once-mighty sentiment to a mere shadow of itself. They may be yet capable of a cheer, but the force behind those voices seems long gone.

At least their loyalty seems a little stronger. Once, you could have counted upon your Dragoons to follow you anywhere, to sacrifice anything only on your word of honour that the situation demanded it. By the end of the war, you could have crowned yourself Emperor of Old Calligia, and they might well have dropped to their knees and sworn fealty. Your name still carries some weight among them, but nowhere near what it once did. Your veterans may have once loved you, but that was a long time ago.

And that isn't even considering the new recruits, those who know your veteran Dragoons not as the proud fighting men they were when you last left them in Antar, but as the broken-down remnants they have become since; the cast-off debris of an army which no longer required them. Fresh-faced boys who have never seen battle, nor the sort of qualities needed to survive it. They too will have to be moulded, drilled, and if necessary, beaten into shape.

The only real question is, where do you even start?

[ ] [TRAINING] Before all else, soldiers must have discipline!
[ ] [TRAINING] Morale must come first.
[ ] [TRAINING] I will begin by building up their loyalty, and the rest will follow.

 

[Rogue Attican]

THE REGIMENT
Being a brief DESCRIPTION of the general QUALITIES and CONDITION of the ROYAL DRAGOON REGIMENT.​

Colonel-in-Chief: Her Tierran Majesty, Isobel d'al Rendower
Colonel Commanding: His Lordship, the Earl of Castermaine
Quartermaster: Major Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta

First Squadron
Officer Commanding: Captain James d'al Sandoral

Discipline: 30%
Morale: 26%
Loyalty: 24%
Strength: 69%

Second Squadron
Officer Commanding: Lieutenant-colonel the Baron Reddingfield

Discipline: 43%
Morale: 49%
Loyalty: 49%
Strength: 44%

Third Squadron
Officer Commanding: Captain Arcturus d'al Hawkins

Discipline: 62%
Morale: 57%
Loyalty: 15%
Strength: 36%

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [TRAINING] Morale must come first.

To a body of fighting men, morale may well be everything. On the battlefield, it can be the difference between victory and defeat. On campaign, it can determine whether a regiment stays together or bleeds itself to nothing from desertion. It renders shaky troops steadfast, makes the timid fight like lions, and might hold an army together even after the most terrible of defeats. High morale is an advantage which can overturn even the most wretched odds.

And in a situation like this, you're going to need every advantage you can get.

The cause of your command's current lack of any such quality becomes quite obvious after even the most cursory observation. In short, they've lost their purpose. Having returned from Antar to find themselves without real cause or purpose, they've allowed themselves to dissipate, remaining in ranks solely for ration and pay. They have forgotten what it means to be soldiers, and the new recruits, having found their elders in such a condition, never learned in the first place.

That is the first thing you address. Before anything else, you ensure that your men are given the new issue of uniforms prepared for them. Then, you see to their appearance. For days, your men do nothing but polish buttons, brush coats, sharpen sabres, and clean tack. Next, you move from the equipment to the men themselves: hair cut, chins shaved, backs straightened, and fingernails cleaned, until they begin to look the part which the demands of the service must have them play.

But that is not all.

It's one thing to give men the pride of soldiers, but you know they're more than that. They are Royal Dragoons, and of that too, you see fit to remind them.

Privately, you instruct the longest-serving of your sergeants to remind the men of who they are, of the glory their sabres have won, of the honour their uniform carries. You bid them tell stories of the death-ride at Blogia, of the storming of Kharangia, and all the bloody and glorious actions in between. You bid them tell the story of the red stripe which some of them still wear on their uniforms, and how they got it. You have them remind the old men of the illustrious paths they have ridden down and awe the new ones with the great legacy which they are to inherit.

The effect is both astonishing and total. Within just a few days, the sensibilities of the fresh recruits towards the older men seem changed entirely. Now they know the great and terrible deeds which the veterans in their midst had once accomplished. Now they see their elders as men with experiences worth listening to and names worth celebrating.

Your Antar veterans also seem much transformed. They hold their heads up higher now, their backs straighter. You've made them respected and esteemed again. For the first time in a long time, they begin to swagger and strut and carry themselves like the men they once were. It's a good step, but it is yet only a first step. They still have far to go before you can count upon them as you once did, before they are what they once were.

You suppose you could say much the same about yourself.

It was hard enough to determine just how far your abilities had deteriorated during your long time away from the constant and enervating demands of active service, but now that you're once again with the regiment, it's hard to deny that peace has done much to weaken your martial abilities. Your senses feel dulled, your limbs far weaker, your breath comes much harder in moments of exertion, regulations and words of command come to your mind slower than they once did, orders which you had once been able to show with perfect decision now come out muddled and uncertain, and everything around you feels just a little off—too fast, or too slow, or too bright, or too grey.

Perhaps it is simply a temporary disability, like the weakened gait of a man who has spent too long in the saddle, able to be corrected with exertion and practise. Perhaps it is simply your age catching up to you. After so many years of hard service, it ought not to be so surprising that your body and mind might be on the first steps of wearing down.

Or perhaps it is simply that you're no longer a soldier at heart, and that the world which you once inhabited as your own will simply grow more and more alien, as you grow increasingly estranged from that time so long ago when you were.

[ ] [VETERAN] I am still a soldier, and I mean to restore my abilities to what they once were.
[ ] [VETERAN] It is a simple matter of growing old, I think.
[ ] [VETERAN] My soldiering days are past, and I will not miss them.

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [VETERAN] I am still a soldier, and I mean to restore my abilities to what they once were.

It seems that perhaps you're more like the men under your command than you thought.

Just as they had spent the years of peace allowing their abilities to fall prey to complacency and dissipation, you too have made yourself fat and weak through indolence and inaction. True, the effect may not be as pronounced as it was with your men, but the decline of your faculties may well be even more disastrous should they be required at a moment of crisis. The single point of weakness of a body of soldiery is the ability of its commanding officer; you cannot allow yourself to be found wanting when you are tested.

So, the solution is obvious. Here, too, you bear some resemblance to your men, for just as their long period of decline must be reversed through vigorous exercise and robust discipline, you must rebuild your own capabilities in the same manner, through the same methods. You must commit to a regimen capable of restoring the abilities you once possessed and erasing the legacy of these past years of disuse. You must exert yourself to restore yourself, just as a man must complete the process of healing a broken leg by walking upon it. You must fully engage yourself in the task of becoming the soldier you once were.

To do otherwise would be a betrayal of your true nature.

Your conclusions, however, must give way to a more immediate concern.

Four days after you rejoin your regiment, you are at last enjoying the hitherto unreasonable extravagance of an actual supper in your townhouse, when your valet informs you that you have a guest awaiting an urgent audience in the entry hall.

For a moment, you don't know whether to be annoyed for being so abruptly interrupted at the first decent meal you've had in nearly a week, or curious as to the identity of an individual who would so brazenly call upon the personal lodgings of a Queen's officer and a Lord of the Cortes in the dead of night without so much as a letter of introduction.

You cannot imagine your caller to be a complete stranger, unless they're the sort possessed of such power and influence as to be able to cast aside the strictures of proper behaviour altogether; but even if that is the case, why visit you? Could it be an admirer of some sort? A casual acquaintance from some place or other in need of a benefactor or ally? You're still wondering as to the possibilities when you step through the door. Only then is all revealed.

For before you stands a figure who is no stranger, even if the two of you haven't spoken for years.

"I must apologise for calling upon you at this hour, my lord," Edmund Garing declares as he steps forward, a heavy case under his arm. "I was told that you would be available at no other time, and well…"

He manages a twitch of a grin, the barest flicker of the most radiant and complete pride. "I suspect that you would rather like to see this."

-​

Edmund Garing is somewhat changed since the last time you spoke to him, nearly ten years ago at Kharangia. He's wearing the same black coat he did then, but there's grey in his hair now and some wrinkles about the eyes. You note a slight stoop to his posture and three fingers on his left hand which do not end quite the way fingers ought. It seems that experimenting with firearms may well carry as many hazards as carrying one into battle.

Yet one thing which remains unchanged is his idiosyncratic, almost unstable manner: the careful composure expected from one of the owning partners of Tierra's largest gun-making firms transformed into bright, almost violent energy when animated by the discussion of the mechanical state of the art.

As he is now.

"I must confess that it was your suggestion that I consider the deadbolt which first caused me to embark upon this course of thinking," he explains excitedly as he turns over the intricate amalgamation of jagged metal springs and rods in his hands. "You see, the operator grasps the handle of the bolt here and slides it back, opening the breech of the weapon and allowing shot, powder, and primer to be slid into the chamber." He mimes the process of loading a cartridge as he explains, then pushes the bolt handle forward again. "Closing the bolt charges the spring in the bolt shaft, here. Once it is fully closed like so, the spring engages with a latch, which is then connected to the trigger."

You nod, piecing together the rest of the process in your head. "Squeeze the trigger, the latch releases the spring, the needle pushes into the cartridge, past the powder, into the primer, and the whole thing goes off."

"Quite so, my lord! Quite so!" the other man exclaims as he sets the model back down into his case. "You can imagine the implications."

You can.

You grasped half of it when Garing had first shown you his prototype for a self-contained cartridge in a tent as the guns he helped design pounded Kharangia's fortifications to rubble outside. You saw the potential of a firelock capable of being loaded from its breech, without need to prime its pan separately or stand to ram home shot and powder. A gun which could be loaded kneeling or prone and fired at a speed far greater than even a dragonlock.

Yet you had not considered how much faster.

The operation which Garing has just demonstrated repeats itself in your head, not as a careful exhibition of a craftsman's model but as the swift, efficient action of a trained soldier: open, load, close, fire. Open, load, close, fire; the complicated dance of discharging a musket reduced to a handful of movements.

Some of it must have shown on your face, for when you look up again, Garing is nodding with as sure an expression as you've ever seen him carry.

"If it is perfected, this mechanism will change a great deal."

No. It's more than that. If this mechanism is perfected, it will change everything.

[X] "Has this mechanism been tested?"

"Quite so, my lord," Garing replies. "Quite thoroughly, in fact. We have built six working prototypes, three of them rifled. We have shot at least a thousand cartridges through each."

"How do they perform?"

"Given the circumstances? Exceptionally well," the engineer replies, a note of pride in his voice. "The rifled models especially. They are accurate up to three hundred paces at least. We've found that the passage of the ball often clears much of the fouling from the previous powder charge, so they require far less cleaning than a conventional rifle."

That makes sense. It would also mean that the main obstacle to the speedy loading of a rifle—the need to ram a tight-fitting ball down a barrel fouled by powder residue—would be much lessened. Which should mean…

"What is the rate of fire?"

The engineer had evidently been expecting that question, for his grin grows wider before you even finish asking it. "We've managed eight rounds a minute, when it works."

Eight rounds a minute? Why, that is phenomenal! Takaran infantry, with their century or more of musket drill and their dragonlock weapons, would be hard-pressed to match eight rounds a minute, and certainly not lying prone. And yet…

"What do you mean, 'when it works?'"

At that, Garing's smile collapses. "We've had some trouble with the trigger mechanism. It doesn't always fire properly. Perhaps one time in twenty, it releases prematurely. One time in fifty, it will not go off at all. Personally, I think that it is something to do with the method in which the force of the bolt spring is transferred to the trigger assembly." A portion of his good cheer returns then, though you cannot tell how much of it is merely a show for your benefit. "Not to worry. I have already devised a means to set the spring independently, if necessary. It will slow the process of loading a little, but it will resolve the problem, I guarantee it."

You can only hope his confidence is well-founded.

[X] "How long until you might begin producing these weapons in earnest?"

Garing pauses in thought for a moment. "The parts which continue to cause problems can be stripped out or otherwise replaced with simpler alternatives; we have designs enough for those. The result would be rather more crude than this model, of course, and the tolerances would have to be much greater, but aside from that?" He shrugs. "I could start tomorrow if the need were great enough."

"So why haven't you?"

"Because if I did so, I would be producing them at the rate of ten a year," the engineer replies sourly. "Recall, my lord, that I have embarked upon this project as a personal endeavour, and despite the funds which you and your fellow investors have so generously allowed me, this undertaking enjoys the support of neither my partners nor the firm of Garing, Gutierrez, and Truscott as a whole. Had I access to the mills and machine shops in Tannersburg, I would be quite easily be able to begin production of weapon much like these on a considerable scale within a matter of months, if not weeks; yet I do not, and so such a prospect remains outside my grasp."

"What would the acquisition of such support require?" you ask. Surely, there must be some way for Garing to convince his own business associates.

But the engineer's frown only deepens. "The crux of the issue is that Master Truscott and Master Gutierrez are my seniors in substance if not in form, and neither consider this project to be profitable, and that is an opinion they will not relinquish until I can prove otherwise. So, unless I am able to secure an order of sufficient size to prove the viability of this project, I am at an impasse."

You catch his meaning immediately. "The difficulty is no longer mechanical but political. You need Grenadier Square to adopt this weapon as standard issue."

Garing nods. "If I can secure the adoption of this weapon, even on a limited scale, I may at least secure enough funding to establish my own manufacturing facilities, even if I cannot convince my partners as to the potential of it. If not…"

You nod grimly, filling in the spaces for yourself. If Garing cannot secure an order, then there can be no progress. His revolutionary new rifle will languish as nothing more than a few prototypes, until it is superseded by some other model or forgotten about altogether. It will fall into obscurity.

And you will not see a penny from it.

[X] "I suspect you haven't come all this way just to show me this."

"No, my lord," Garing replies. "You are not the only investor I am calling upon. I have come to keep you appraised of the progress of my work."

You feel one eyebrow raise. "And you could not do this by correspondence, as you have in the past?"

"I…" Garing hesitates for a moment. "My lord, are you aware of the Army Reform Commission?"

"I would hope so," you answer rather drily. "I sit on it."

"Oh?" He seems almost puzzled for a moment, then shakes his head as if to dismiss an errant thought. "Oh yes, of course. I suppose you are, though I suppose that does make it rather curious that you weren't informed that I had been summoned."

"Perhaps the news was lost on the way," you suggest. "Matters are not exactly conducive to the smooth functioning of the Royal bureaucracy at the moment."

Garing frowns for a moment, but nods a moment later. "Yes, I suppose you're right." He lets out an uncharacteristically melancholy sigh. "A damned shame about the King. I liked him, always knew what he was about, or at least seemed to."

You nod, more out of courtesy than anything else. The King rides with the Saints now. Great shows of mourning would be lost on him. "You were talking about the Army Reform Commission, Master Garing?"

"Yes. I was summoned to Aetoria at the request of someone on the Commission," Garing explains. "I suspect they want to examine the prototypes I've brought. Perhaps they mean to consider the possibility of recommending adoption."

You nod. That would make sense. You cannot imagine that the Commission wouldn't examine the possibility of new advancements in weapons and equipment in its report eventually. Perhaps this is the first step to seeing Garing's design adopted by the army as a whole.

Then again…

You know that not all of those present on the Commission would wish to see it succeed, and the chance that a report might be submitted and its recommendations taken seriously seem even more remote now that the Commission has lost its royal patron. Indeed, if the Commission chooses to submit the most modest recommendations possible in a spirit of politickal caution, then you cannot imagine that it will have much good to say about the potentially massive expense of a general re-armament programme.

"Master Garing," you essay, "I don't suppose you would know how favourably disposed these particular Commission members were towards your undertaking, would you?"

The engineer frowns. "I'm afraid not, my lord. In fact, I was hoping to ask you the same thing."

So the matter really is up in the air. The Commission may choose to recommend adopting one of Garing's rifles in the end, but given the circumstances, it seems far more likely to recommend against it. A state of affairs may well arise in which you would have to use your position on the Commission to ensure that Garing's rifle project is given the necessary consideration.

The idea does not sit well with you. Using your position on a Royal Commission to defend an enterprise from which you may personally stand to profit—that does sound a great deal like corruption. Yet if you wish to see Garing's project succeed, it may well be your best option.

[X] "I fear I must excuse myself. I've a long day tomorrow."

Garing glances at his watch for an instant. "Yes, of course, my apologies again for disturbing you at such a late hour, my lord."

He moves to pack up his bag again, but halfway through, he stops once more. "Oh yes! There was one more thing I meant to show you." He pulls out a folded piece of paper, of the smooth, heavy sort favoured by surveyors and cartographers—and evidently, gunsmiths. "Perhaps you may not recall, but when we last spoke in Antar, I made mention of a mechanism capable of carrying multiple loads of shot, primer, and cartridge in a revolving cylinder."

"I do remember," you reply. "You said it wouldn't work. Something about the gases of combustion venting into the face of whoever was shooting it."

Garing nods as he unfolds the paper once, twice, three times, until it is nearly the width of his outstretched arms. "I did, my lord. But now, I believe I have resolved that issue." He turns the great sheet towards you. "Look at this."

​

Sure enough, there's a drawing of a rotating metal cylinder portrayed in the meticulous detail of a master draughtsman. On one face, you can see five holes bored into the side, large enough to accommodate ball and powder. On the other, five protruding sockets, each sized to fit a primer cap. Yet the cylinder in Garing's diagram is not attached to the long stock of a musket. No, the barrel which this cylinder is attached to is more truncated than that of the shortest carbine. Its butt is sharply curved, with room only for a single hand.

"A pistol," you observe, understanding immediately. Pistols are not fired from the shoulder as muskets are, but held at arm's length. If the gap betwixt cylinder and barrel were placed in a manner to be far forward of the hand, then the gases would naturally vent into open air.

"Quite so," Garing replies with a look of some satisfaction before directing your attention to the drawing of a metal spur protruding from the frame just rear of the cylinder. "The lever here would turn this cog, which in turn advances the cylinder. It ought to be easily worked by the thumb alone."

It could. You can see it in your mind now. Squeeze the trigger, pull the lever, cycle the cylinder, squeeze the trigger, without need for even the slightest movement above the wrist. Pull, turn, fire. Pull, turn, fire.

Five shots in the space of a breath.

[ ] [REVOLVER] "I want one. No. Saints be damned. I want fifty."
[ ] [REVOLVER] "It would be a remarkable weapon, if it works."
[ ] [REVOLVER] "Does it not bother you how much deadlier such a device would make war?"

 

[Rogue Attican]

[X] [REVOLVER] "I want one. No. Saints be damned. I want fifty."

The range would be short, of course, as it would be for any pistol. You would be able to make no guesses as to accuracy either, especially from the saddle.

And yet the ability to fire five shots without reloading, in quick succession, seems to you almost miraculous. Armed with two such weapons each, a single troop of cavalry would be able to deliver a weight of fire equivalent to that of an entire battalion of infantry firing in three ranks.

Saints above. You can only imagine the execution your men could deal, if you could secure a supply of such weapons.

But alas, one look at Garing's expression is all you need to know that such an eventuality remains a distant and uncertain one.

"Moving from plans to a prototype is not as simple a matter as it might seem," the engineer explains. "Prototypes require time and resources, which are already stretched thin enough on the current project. Perhaps if the Army Reform Commission decides favourably in regards to adopting a rifle design, and perhaps if their recommendations lead to an order large enough to convince my fellows to allocate the company's time and effort, I shall be able to win free enough of my own resources to embark upon this new project."

"And then you will have the time to attend to this project?" you ask.

He nods, but with no real joy. "Yes, but that could be five or ten years hence, and even that is assuming that the Commission does not recommend against it."

"And if it does?"

Garing answers with a sad little grin. "Then I shall be in scant position to pursue any personal projects at all."

So it all comes down to the Army Reform Commission. If the Commission decides to endorse the continued development and manufacture of Garing's new rifles, then you may both yet see the project to a successful conclusion. If not, then it may well doom not only his current project, but all the potential projects which are to follow.

Indeed, it's entirely possible the whole affair rests upon the opinions of the Commission. Given the current situation, you don't think it entirely unlikely that the fate of Garing's projects, his professional reputation—indeed, the whole of his career may well rest upon the disposition of a single voting member: Castermaine's, Palliser's, Welles', Hawthorne's…

Perhaps even yours.

It is a thought that stays with you long after Garing makes his goodbyes and leaves you once again to the solitude of the night. It stays with you into the next day's duties, despite your best attempts to redirect your thoughts towards the more present concerns of your squadron and your regiment.

It stays with you the morning after, when you step through the doors of Grenadier Square to attend the first meeting of the Army Reform Commission since the death of the King.

Uncertainty hangs over the commission room, as thick and heavy as a morning fog. Though the meeting itself was scheduled far in advance, and the inertia of royal bureaucracy had mandated its occurrence even despite the circumstances, there's no possibility at all that this session is to be merely business as usual. With the death of the Commission's royal patron and the question of his successor's powers still in doubt, the only question on anyone's mind is that of how the Commission is now to continue.

Or if it is to continue at all.

"Members of the Commission, I would think the correct course of action quite clear," the Earl of Castermaine declares. "This body was called to order on the King's request and empowered by his authority. With his most unfortunate passing, any mandate we may have formerly possessed is now lost…" He raises a hand as a wave of opposition rumbles from around him. "It is clear that the right thing—"

His words are lost under a renewed surge of censorious voices, and it isn't until he all but shouts over them as if they were an unruly company of his regiment that he is heard once again.

"The right thing to do would be to suspend the operations of this Commission until such a time that the question of the Queen's powers are settled!" he insists, beating his way through the storm of opposing shouts through sheer persistence. "If the Queen is ruled to have the power to resume the work of this Commission, and if she consents to do so, we may resume our work, but until then…"

It's all a wash, of course. Castermaine's true intention seems obvious enough. Suspending the Commission would be the hard part. From then on, it would be a simple matter of obstruction and rhetoric to keep it from being started again, even if the Queen were to gain the power to do so.

If the Commission is stopped now, it will die.

The rest of the Commission sees it too, and they ensure that Castermaine doesn't get much further before shouting him down entirely. Yet it becomes clear that they too are split on how to proceed.

This time, there's no neat division along schools of thought as there was in the past. Neither Palliser nor Hawthorne are in command of their factions anymore. Both are in agreement that the Commission must continue, but it is the greater question as to the manner of that continuation which finds both Cavalry School and Infantry School proponents divided amongst themselves.

Caution seems to animate half of them, or perhaps simply a greater degree of it than before, when you were all still operating with the explicit and substantive support of the Gryphon Throne. Now, however, with the King gone, they argue that the Commission should wind itself up as quickly as possible. Pick the recommendations least likely to offend the Cortes, the Exchequer, and whoever is going to end up running the realm in the Queen's name, bundle them into a report at soonest convenience, and make no further moves until such a time when the politickal circumstances favour its submission.

Unsurprisingly, that proves to be Hawthorne's position, one which gains him support not only from some of his own allies, but some of Palliser's as well. It isn't an inspiring argument, but it is a sound one, the position that in times such as these, a small step forward with a greater chance of success is better than a larger one with a proportionally larger chance of failure.

Yet it does not convince everyone.

Palliser and Welles seem to have taken a differing view, and many others besides, including almost all of the Crown's staunchest partisans. They argue that if the Commission was called to learn the lessons of the war in Antar and use them to reform the army, then any attempt to curtail the Commission's ability to deliver the most comprehensive set of recommendations possible would be a betrayal of that original purpose. They brook no discussion of politickal expediency or extenuating circumstances. Although they may be made up of members of the Cavalry School and the Infantry School both, on this matter they are in complete agreement: there must be no compromise.

Given such circumstances, it's no surprise that the Commission quickly breaks down. Any semblance of order disappears as the members around you disperse into half a dozen chaotic arguments, often with their immediate neighbours.

It will come down to a vote eventually, of that you are sure. It may take hours for enough of your colleagues to agree to it, but you doubt anything will be settled without one. When that happens, you suspect that it will be Castermaine's faction who will find themselves outnumbered the most severely. Yet that still leaves the question of the two remaining factions. Either one might win out, and you rather strongly suspect that a single vote one way or the other might be enough to swing the outcome.

And then there is you, of course. You have yet to commit to one side or another, though you suspect that your political allies will think poorly of you if you make common cause with Castermaine. With the way things are balanced, it's entirely possible that you may well prove the deciding factor on how the Commission is to proceed—or even if it is to proceed at all.

The question is, whose side do you mean to take?

[ ] [COMMISSION] The Commission has lost its mandate. We must suspend it immediately.
[ ] [COMMISSION] The situation calls for caution. We cannot afford anything else.
[ ] [COMMISSION] No compromise: this Commission cannot hamstring itself for the sake of political expediency.