Let's Play: Cataphrak's Dragoon Saga

[Rogue Attican]

[X] "My estate offers me a reliable source of potential investment capital."

"An estate may bring income, but it also brings expenses," a voice to your left replies. "In fact, I do not think it uncharitable to say that almost every titled house in the Unified Kingdom possesses some amount of debt attached to its holdings. Given your expenses and debts, what guarantee have we that your estate will help rather than hinder your ability to operate as an investor?"

"My estate provides a considerable income," you reply, "more than enough to maintain my existing obligations while allowing for further discretionary spending."

"We shall need a more precise figure than that," a voice replies from the right.

Is he—is he asking for your income? Surely he can't be…you're not sure quite how to respond to that. "With the greatest respect, sir, I am not sure I can be comfortable discussing my finances in such an unseemly manner."

The voice in front of you answers. "With the greatest respect, my lord, one cannot do business without discussing money frankly and without embarrassment." You see his form shift forward. "If one means to join the Shipowners Club, one cannot remain tied to such reluctances. A more precise figure, please."

Saints be damned, surely they cannot be expecting you to expose the contents of your ledgers! You'd rather expose the contents of your trousers first!

Yet the men of the Shipowners Club demand an answer. Perhaps they would be satisfied with a more vague figure…

"I am worth about twelve hundred a year," you reply hesitantly. "Surely one does not need more detail than that?" Silence falls again. You try to look for some sign as to the disposition of the men around you, yet to your eyes, their darkened silhouettes are as blank as blocks of stone.

"Has one anything else to offer?" the voice in front of you asks.

[X] "I am a Lord of the Cortes, surely that means something?"

"Perhaps it does, but likely not as much as one might think," a voice answers from the left. "You are not the first Lord of the Cortes to seek membership, and if we choose to deny one his request, he would not be the first to be rejected, either."

Surely, they must be bluffing. The Shipowners Club may boast titled gentlemen of the blood among its numbers, but it is still an institution built around the exchange of money. They must need every member of the aristocracy they can get their hands on if only to add lustre and respectability to the rather tawdry reason for their existence.

"I do not think Lords of the Cortes are quite so eager to join up as one might claim," you reply.

"Then one would be incorrect in his assumptions," a voice shoots back from the right, defensive, almost petulant. "But…we must admit that few of such lords possess a reputation like yours."

Silence falls again. You try to look for some sign as to the disposition of the men around you, yet to your eyes, their darkened silhouettes are as blank as blocks of stone.

"Has one anything else to offer?" the voice in front of you asks.

[X] "I have a great deal of influence in certain circles."

"An easy claim to make," a voice from the left replies drily. "Everyone has great influence in certain circles. Even a carpenter curries influence among his apprentices."

"I speak of Grenadier Square and the King's Army," you reply. "I have no small number of friends there, made during my time at war and after."

Some of the figures around you turn to each other in whispered conference. You must imagine some made their fortunes during the war in Antar, feeding Grenadier Square's constant demand for materiel. The realm may be at peace now, but even the peacetime army is in need of weapons, equipment, uniforms, and supplies in vast quantities. No small amount of money could still be made from supplying its needs, as your questioners no doubt know well.

Silence falls again. You try to look for some sign as to the disposition of the men around you, yet to your eyes, their darkened silhouettes are as blank as blocks of stone.

"Has one anything else to offer?" the voice in front of you asks.

[X] "I already possess some experience in regards to financial investment."

"Ah yes, Garing's folly," the voice to your front replies bitterly. "I heard that he'd gotten a Dragoon officer or two interested in the idea—one was a Dragoon in Antar, was he not?"

You nod. "I was, sir." How does this man know about Garing's rifle project? Is he a friend? A rival?

"I hope one realises that one is likely never to see his money again," the voice continues. "One rarely does in such ventures."

"I was told as much," you reply. "I chose to invest regardless."

"By the Saints!" one voice exclaims from the right. "He understands risk-taking well enough to be one of us, that is for sure!"

Gratifyingly, at least two of his fellows seem to agree. You see their heads bob up and down in agreement.

Silence falls again. You try to look for some sign as to the disposition of the men around you, yet to your eyes, their darkened silhouettes are as blank as blocks of stone.

"Has one anything else to offer?" the voice in front of you asks.

[X] "No, that is all."

There is a moment of silence. Your words reverberate across the still air of the room. You suppose you've done it now.

"Very well," replies the voice in front of you. "We shall require a few moments to deliberate. If you would please excuse us, my lord?"

You spend the next few moments waiting outside with the greatest anxiety. It is like waiting for the assault on Kharangia to begin all over again. A ludicrous thought, you suppose. Then, you were waiting to hazard your life and your fortune. Now? The only stake is membership in a prestigious club. Surely—

"My lord?"

You turn to see a tall, spare man in a sober grey jacket before you. He speaks to you with the low, gravelly voice which had sat in front of you not just a few minutes ago.

He extends a hand towards you, a golden pin worked in the shape of a ship's wheel resting in its palm.

"Allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations…".

-​

You spend much of the next week getting used to how things are run at the Shipowners Club.

In truth, in many ways, your new club is not that much different from any other such institution intended for the patronage of men of your class. The Shipowners' headquarters is a place of well-furnished rooms, comfortable armchairs, tabac smoke, and expensive liquor. Yet instead of Tassenswerd, society gossip, or the customary pastimes of other clubs, here there is only the matter of money: who has made it, who has lost it, what to buy, what to sell. Their conversation is a heady mix of technical jargon and cryptic innuendoes. To your untrained ear, they might as well be speaking Kian.

Thankfully, you do not face this strange new world alone. As a full member of the Shipowners' Club, you have been assigned a broker of your own: the newly promoted Mortimer Blanco, eager to please and even more eager to share his understanding of the trading floor that the club oversees.

You prove a quick study, rapidly grasping the basics. Soon you are spending hours poring through shipping reports, price tables, and the latest news from the trading floor in search of the perfect opportunity to make your own first investments.

So it is perhaps not surprising that you are sitting in the common room of the Shipowners Club when a footman approaches you and places a small envelope of thick, creamy paper on the table before you.

The message itself is unremarkable, an invitation to tea three days hence.

Unremarkable, that is, until you see the signature at the bottom.

The signature is simple, and its calligraphy is neat and efficient but hardly artful. No noble titles accompany it, no honours either. It is but a simple name, entirely, almost bizarrely, unadorned: "Isobel."

But then again, one may easily enough indulge in such eccentricity when one is Princess-Royal.

It would be unfair to call the King's younger sister a recluse. She's been seen in public often enough for it to be common knowledge that she's neither sickly nor deformed. Yet the sheer exclusivity of her private gatherings is almost legendary. From what you've heard, entry to such functions is restricted only to the closest of her confidantes, and those select few that have distinguished themselves in her eye, either by the strength of their convictions, the breadth of their accomplishments, or the power of their intellect.

To be invited to such a gathering singles you out as a man on the make, someone who has caught the attention of one of the most powerful women in the Unified Kingdom.

It is an honour you cannot refuse.

 

[Rogue Attican]

Chapter III
In which the LORD OF THE CORTES finds himself embroiled in a political dispute of increasing DELICACY and RANCOUR.​

"…certainly do not think any of you could do this in a court dress of the current fashion, not without getting stuck through with half a dozen pins!"

You shift a little in your high-backed chair, feeling quite egregiously out of place as Morwena, Viscountess Ravenstall makes wild contortions side to side at the waist, much to the delighted gasps of the half-dozen ladies clustered around her. Whatever you were expecting when you received an invitation to the Northern Keep, it wasn't the prospect of sitting in this intimate little neo-Calligian chamber, watching one of the Queen-Dowager's ladies-in-waiting show off a scandalously cut new dress to a cluster of her peers.

For a moment, Lady Ravenstall seems to bask in the approval of her friends, but her smile fades near instantly as an almost cadaverously thin figure rises from her seat at the other side of the chamber, her auburn hair tied back into a severe governess' bun and her lips pursed with disapproval.

"It's silk," pronounces the Princess-Royal with all the dire gravitas of an intendant condemning a man to hang.

Lady Ravenstall answers with a look of almost complete confusion. "Of course, it's silk, Izzy. Almost all court dresses are these days. Is there something wrong with that?"

"I cannot say I approve of importing Kian silks," the Princess replies concernedly, "not when half the cotton fields in Warburton lie fallow for want of profitable use, and the price of linen is half what it was three years ago."

"But cotton is so dull, and the dye never takes to linen right," Ravenstall protests. "If only you could feel how freely I might move! Why, I could fight a battle in this dress!" She turns to one of her companions, a familiar face in this small crowd of strangers. "Ellie! Surely one must appreciate that!"

But Eleanora, Countess Welles only shakes her head. "Izzy's right, Wen. Grenadier Square ordered a hundred thousand cotton uniform under-tunics a year for the army in Antar. With the war over, the demand is gone, and the cotton farmers have been the ones feeling the effects. They need relief more than we need to find ourselves more indebted to some Kian merchant house. And besides…" She adds the twitch of a smile to take the sting out of her reply. "If the soldiers of the King's Army fight in cotton, I daresay I could, too."

Yet Lady Ravenstall remains undeterred. Her gaze darts from face to face, from one gentle look of disapproval to another, until her eyes meet yours. "What does my lord think?" She poses before you like a music hall showgirl. "Surely, one must admit that the silk does have a certain…striking effect."

You've heard more than once before that Viscountess Ravenstall is considered one of the most acknowledged beauties of Aetorian society. From your perspective, you find yourself easily agreeing with that assessment. But you've attracted the attention of the room's other occupants too, their expressions marked with civil yet obvious grins at your increasingly apparent discomfiture. Behind them, Princess Isobel seems less than amused. Indeed, she seems to await your answer with an almost deadly earnestness.

[ ] [DRESS] "Surely the material for a single dress cannot demand so harsh a judgement."
[ ] [DRESS] "I fear Her Highness is right. We must consider the repercussions of even our personal decisions."
[ ] [DRESS] "I do not think I am qualified to offer an opinion on dressmaking."

 

[The Laurent]

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

 

[IamtooSleepy]

"My estate provides a considerable income," you reply, "more than enough to maintain my existing obligations while allowing for further discretionary spending."

Click to shrink...

Well. those "considerable income" is currently being entirely used to insufficiently cover "discretionary spending", but sure, let's go with that.
Also, being from Wulfram might help us here by pushing income over the passing check.

[X] [DRESS] "I fear Her Highness is right. We must consider the repercussions of even our personal decisions."
High society fashion is possibly not going to substitute the demand from military clothing, but it's better than nothing.

Also, we are now not just a poor aristocrat whom gains most income from extracting wealth from poor farmer, but also a (still) poor capitalist who will begin to gain income from throwing the risk at someone else and insider trading. Hurrah?

 

[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."

 

[The Laurent]

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

 

[SeptimusMagisto]

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

Worst case scenario, we show up and don't do any work.

Best case scenario, we abuse our position to get rich off gun sales.

 

[IamtooSleepy]

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

I understand that one do not refuse offer from the royal, but I still think we can and should get in to the ARC by our own merit.

 

[SeptimusMagisto]

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

I understand that one do not refuse offer from the royal, but I still think we can and should get in to the ARC by our own merit.

Click to shrink...

Why? Our society operates entirely on patronage.

 

[ArcanaVitae]

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

 

[Dragoon]

[X] [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.

 

[WestOrEast]

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

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

 

[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?"

 

[The Laurent]

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

 

[WestOrEast]

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

 

[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!"

 

[The Laurent]

[X] [WELLES] "Perhaps we may speak again sometime."

 

[WestOrEast]

[X] [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!

 

[The Laurent]

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

Getting rid of the army: Great!

Austerity: Terrible!

 

[WestOrEast]

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

 

[SeptimusMagisto]

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

A budget bill that tries to impose restrictions on subsequent years' budgets? What madness is this?

In the spirit of bureaucratic outrage, we must vote it down.

 

[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?

 

[WestOrEast]

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