[X] [COUNSEL] "I do not suppose we might still negotiate?"
Really, both sides just want the best for the realm ; if they just tried to find some sort of compromise, we wouldn't be here.
And our Alaric, being a merciful idealist, would very much like 'em to talk (wishful thinking, granted).
One of the better parts of this story is that the Duke of Wulfram isn't a power-hungry monster. He is an ambitious, intelligent man with reasonable objections to royal policy. Unfortunately, his solutions are deeply flawed.
Reducing the army would generally be a good thing, but this is not the time. We are caught between the Great Powers, and Takara has just elected a hawkish government. If we are not strong enough to claim a seat at the table, we will be on the menu.
[X] [COUNSEL] "We should bide our time, see what Wulfram does first."
"That would be as good as ceding Wulfram the initiative," Lefebvre replies. "We have the advantage: we know what he's up to, and he does not know we know. Our best course of action is in acting upon that, not in sitting by and allowing Wulfram to gain the upper hand!"
"The advantage does not always belong to he who moves first," Leannejouwe observes. "In Quie, it is often understood that the player who moves second is the one with the stronger position."
The Grenadier Colonel scowls. "This is not a game, Your Excellency! The very fate of the Unified Kingdom may well be at stake! We cannot afford to take chances!"
"No, we cannot."
The Queen looks to all three of you, one at a time, before continuing.
"Colonel Lefebvre, you forget that the problem before us is a political one, not a military one," she says, leaning forward in her chair. "Our object is not to defeat the Duke of Wulfram in battle. It is to destroy his support among both the people and the Cortes. If we act against him openly, before he is seen to have done anything wrong, then we will play into his hands. We will seem in the wrong, and he in the right. We must discredit him before we can destroy him, or else his support will only grow stronger."
"Then shoot the bastard!" the Grenadier officer growls. "Saints above, support does a man little good when he is ashes in the wind!"
"And then what?" the Queen asks. "Some other will pick up his banner, and his supporters will rally around it and grow all the more powerful out of a desire for vengeance. If Wulfram is killed before he is proven a traitor, then I would be the bloody-handed tyrant, and he the blameless martyr—just as he would no doubt have his followers believe. Strike Wulfram down in such a manner, and he will take the House of Rendower with him as he falls."
She shakes her head, her eyes like burnished steel. "No, Wulfram moves first, and only then will we move to destroy him."
With the matter settled, the meeting comes to an end with almost sudden rapidity, and with no more pomp than a squadron briefing. The Queen simply offers a quick nod to each of you. It is only when Lefebvre offers a quiet "Good day, Majesty" and gets up out of his chair that you realise it was a gesture of dismissal.
The doors leading out open with an almost silent grace as the Grenadiers at the entryway swing them out with the practised precision of automatons. The Kian Ambassador also gets up out of his chair, inclining his head in a solemn, precise bow before leading the way out of the room.
You're about to follow him when the Queen's voice stops you mid-stride.
"Lord Reddingfield. Stay for a moment."
You stand in silence for a moment as Lefebvre and Leannejouwe depart, the heavy oaken doors closing after them…
Leaving you alone with your sovereign.
The Queen is not a tall woman, yet somehow, she seems to fill the whole of the room as she gets up out of her chair, looming over you as if she were somehow twice her height.
"We have been appraised, sir, of your efforts on our behalf over the course of the past year, both as a Lord of the Cortes and as an officer of Dragoons." She favours you with the barest hint of a smile. "Rest assured that your doings have not been forgotten and will not go unrewarded."
You dip your head in acknowledgement, even as you consider what she might possibly mean by that. "Thank you, Majesty."
"However, our time of crisis is far from concluded," she continues. "The Crown still has need of your services and those of the men you command yet."
You nod out of pure reflex, like the good soldier which you had once thought you were no longer. "What would you have of me, Majesty?"
"If the Crown is to prevail, then we will have need of strong sabre arms in the days ahead, drilled for war and ready to act," she replies. "Keep your men in readiness. When the time is right, I will send further instruction through an agent, the last of my inner circle still within the city."
An obvious question comes to mind. "How will I recognise this messenger?"
The Queen's lips twist into an expression of wintry amusement. "You may rest assured, my lord. You will know her."
In that moment, a King might have put his hand on your shoulder, or done any of the other things which a man might do to reassure a trusted servant of his confidence in him. For a Queen, there are no such gestures. Yet the look she gives you seems to carry the same sentiments, without a single finger lifted.
"Do as you have done thus far, and you will not fail me, my lord," she finally concludes. "Saints go with you, my lord."
-
The next three days pass with a discomfiting sense of uncertainty.
You know what the Duke of Wulfram and his faction are up to now—or at least, what the Queen believes Wulfram and his faction are up to now—but that doesn't mean you have any real direction on what to do with that information. If the Queen had given orders to prepare the Southern Keep for an attack, or to reconnoitre a particular part of the city, or even to simply ride to the Rendower Club and bring Wulfram and his allies to the Northern Keep in chains, that would have much simplified things. Instead, she has only given you the vaguest instruction: to keep your men in readiness and await her messenger.
And that cannot help but pull on your thoughts as well. The Queen's agent is supposed to be a member of her inner circle, that close-knit group of nobly born women of which the Countesses Leoniscourt and Welles were members. Unfortunately, such knowledge gives you little in the way of indication as to how such a figure might make herself known to you. With almost all of the Queen's intimate friends well-known in society, it would surely be absurd to imagine that she might simply walk through the gates of the Southern Keep; that would surely be reported to Wulfram's faction. But if that's the case, how is she to approach you? With a disguise? In the dark of night? At some clandestine meeting indicated by some cryptic message? Under other circumstances, you daresay the question would have been a rather exciting one, like a scene out of some stage romance. Given the current circumstances, they cannot help but be frustrating.
You're still pondering the matter as you pace the parade ground late one night when you're brought up short by a voice from behind you.
"Something bothering you, sir?"
You turn to find Captain Garret somehow standing not two paces away. Were you so engrossed in thought as to have not noticed his approach at all?
"Just thinking a few things over, Captain," you reply, somewhat evasively.
Garret's eyebrow raises. "Thinking things over? Things like the state of the regiment? Where your officers' loyalties lie? Or perhaps you're thinking about when and by what means the Queen's agent is supposed to approach you to give further orders?"
You feel your gut clench of its own accord. "Saints be damned!" you exclaim, perhaps too loudly, perhaps too excitedly. "How do you know about the Queen's agent?"
Garret answers with a knowing look and a wide, self-satisfied grin.
"Because the Queen's agent is standing right in front of you."
"First of all, that is quite ridiculous," you reply, your words rapidly outpacing your thoughts. "You, the Queen's agent? The very idea is absurd. Who could possibly believe such a thing?"
"Well yes, that is rather the point," Garret replies with a surprising tautness. "When one does what I must do, one can hardly advertise one's true nature."
"It doesn't change the fact that you've been with the regiment this whole time, with little sign of any such nature," you continue. "True, you have your secrets, but they're not so much greater than some others, and they certainly don't speak to the possibility of serving as a trusted agent for any authority, let alone the Queen."
Your subordinate's eyes begin to narrow in what very much appears to be frustration. "It's very good to be sceptical, sir, but—"
"And then there's the most obvious discrepancy of all," you conclude. "It is well-known to most that the Queen's inner circle is entirely comprised of ladies of the blood. While I am quite sure you meet the second half of that criteria, you certainly cannot expect me to believe you meet the first—which means I must ask why you should find yourself obliged to present me with so obvious a falsehood as to—"
Garret's hand reaches out, seizing yours. Before you can even so much as object, he pulls it towards him, pressing it against the front of his coat until—
Wait a moment.
Saints be damned!
You know that in Takara, Kian, M'hidyos and other places, there are men who are born with features not characteristic of their sex. Logically, it would follow that there would be such fellows in Tierra, as well. For an instant, you wonder if that is the secret which Garret has alluded to and demonstrated.
But no, it isn't that. Not given what you just said. No, it seems your subordinate has revealed an entirely different, though no less consequential part of his circumstances.
Or rather, of hers.
Adelina d'al Garret
By Sangiin
Captain Garret lets your hand drop numbly to your side. She doesn't quite seize you by the collar and scream 'do you believe me now?' at the top of her lungs.
But it seems quite clear that she would very much like to.
[X] "I have…a considerable number of questions."
"I would hope so!" Garret exclaims, her frustration replaced in an instant by an almost exuberant grin. "One has certain expectations when one discloses matters of such a nature."
Your eyes narrow. "I hope this means that you intend to answer forthrightly and avoid the sort of circumlocution you seem to resort to so often."
"Why, whatever do you mean by that, sir?"
Garret weathers your unamused look with an innocent expression of her own. "There will be matters which I shall have to avoid discussing, of course. Certain confidences which I am under obligation not to betray, certain details which cannot be made public, but I will do my best to answer your questions as completely as I can, assuming…" She pauses for a moment, her eyes scanning the darkened square of the parade ground. "Assuming you do not ask them too loudly."
You suppose that's as close to a 'yes' as you're going to get.
[X] "What was your purpose in comporting yourself like this?"
"Comporting myself like this?" Garret echoes. "You mean playing the part of a man, securing myself a commission in the Dragoons?"
"It's not exactly the sort of thing most young girls do, is it?"
Garret shrugs again. "Izzy wanted someone to keep an eye on the condition of the army from the inside, and the Dragoons seemed like a good regiment to hide in. This was just before Blogia, mind. We didn't know that this regiment would achieve the reputation it would, and by the time it did, it would have drawn too much attention to transfer to another one."
You suppose that makes sense, after a fashion, but that only raises another question. "That still doesn't explain why you were selected for the task."
"A deep voice, a flat bosom, and a great proficiency for falsehood." Garret grins. "I hope you weren't holding out for a more poetic explanation than that."
You cannot help but be a little disappointed at that answer. Perhaps you were expecting something a little more romantic in nature—but you suppose life is not a three-volume novel, and Captain Garret certainly doesn't fit the model of such a story's protagonist.
"There's also one more thing," the other officer adds. "I must admit that I conceived the notion as a great adventure. I think some part of me still does, enough for me to enjoy this sort of life." She looks to you with an almost-chastened expression. "I suppose that doesn't make me all that much different from the rest of them, does it?"
No, you suppose it doesn't.
[X] "Is there really an Adalberto d'al Garret? Or is that name merely a fiction?"
"My brother," Garret explains. "Younger by a year, but we have always bourne a close physical resemblance. He…" She pauses for a moment, as if trying to find the right words, a rare enough occurrence. "He doesn't have the temperament necessary to remain at ease in the company of others. He despises any manner of society, and any great volume of noise or light makes him ill. He stays in our estate in the country, of his own volition."
"And he knows you're here?" you ask. "Using his name and playing the part which most would expect of him?"
Garret nods. "He knows I am here, as do a few others, yourself included. As for everyone else?" She shrugs. "As far as they're concerned, Adalberto is the Dragoon, and Adelina the recluse."
[X] "So what do I call you now?"
Garret's eyebrow raises in the pale light. "Captain Garret, I would assume. Unless I am to be promoted major anytime soon. I don't suppose a vacancy is open, is it, sir?"
Your eyes narrow. "You know that's not what I mean."
"What else am I to be called?" the other officer asks, as if your meaning had been entirely lost upon her. "I am not the holder or heir to a title, so I am quite clearly not to be styled as lady. I hold no other posts or assignments in an official capacity, so I am given no courtesies in that regard, and surely one cannot presume for us to address each other by our given names when we've never done so before?"
You feel your shoulders slump. You suppose she has a point. Ultimately, despite what Garret has revealed, nothing has really changed betwixt you. Indeed, nothing can change betwixt you, lest it divulge some inkling of Garret's secret—or yours—in the sight or earshot of someone who would be better off remaining ignorant.
Garret's grin widens. Evidently, she noticed your little gesture of resignation. "Rest assured, sir, things are not quite so different from what they were an hour ago. I am still Captain Garret, of Second Squadron, the Royal Dragoons, just as I was before."
"And an intimate of the Queen," you add, somewhat drily.
The other officer's teeth shine in the pale night gloom. "Well yes, that too."
[X] "I suppose I've no other questions."
"Then that returns us to the matter at hand, doesn't it?" Garret replies.
She turns to you, a surprisingly earnest expression on her face. "I have answered as much as I can, and disclosed about as much as I could wish. I daresay I have taken a considerable risk in doing so. If you cannot believe me now, then we shall be at a major impasse."
She has a point. Garret didn't have to answer your questions, and she certainly didn't have to answer them in as uncommonly forthright a manner as she has.
"Very well," you reply. "I believe you; what does Her Majesty wish of me?"
"Well, that's the thing, really. It's less a matter of what she requires of you, and more what you require of her," Garret replies after a moment's thought.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that we have discovered the specifics of Wulfram's plot," Garret replies, a tinge of pride in her voice, as if she had made the discovery herself. "A little over a week from now, when the Cortes meets, Wulfram intends to present a petition to the Queen, asking for control over the offices of state, ostensibly to seek out and punish any within the government who might have been involved with the attack on his family."
The motive, you suppose, is understandable enough, but not the means. If Wulfram had asked for the cooperation of the Intendancy or the like, that would have been reasonable. But power over all of the offices of state?
"Why, that would practically make him King!" you exclaim.
"Precisely."
"And he expects the Queen to simply allow so great an enlargement of his powers at her own expense?" you ask, incredulous. "Surely, he is not so naive as that."
"No, I rather suspect he doesn't," Garret replies. "That would be why he has been taking the actions that he has; bringing in Crittenden's fleet, embodying and massing his allies' Houseguards, smuggling his personal forces into the city. I suspect that he intends to deliver his petition less as a request and more as an ultimatum, with the forces he is now gathering at his disposal as the threat behind it."
[ ] [GARRET] "He will not find us so easily cowed, that's for sure."
[ ] [GARRET] "Surely Her Majesty has some course of action in mind."
[ ] [GARRET] "What could we possibly do against such forces?"
The Infantry School establishes a professional logistics corps, a complete reorganization of the Engineers and the Ordinance Board, centralized recruitment, and permanent brigades and divisions headed by a full-time general staff.
Damn, that's some really good stuff. The Cav school decisions aren't bad and with things about to kick off right now, a more professional soldiery is needed but that's the stuff that forms a modern army.
[X] [GARRET] "He will not find us so easily cowed, that's for sure."
Damn, that's some really good stuff. The Cav school decisions aren't bad and with things about to kick off right now, a more professional soldiery is needed but that's the stuff that forms a modern army.
I actually agree on this point. However, the Royal Tierran Army is still deeply immersed in what the author has referred to as the "Cult of the Fighting Officer." It doesn't help that Tierra's main religion actively encourages its adherents to seek out a glorious death in battle.
On another note, I'm somewhat surprised that none of you have commented on the fact that our Captain Garret is a girl. Then again, we don't know her nearly as well as we might have had we chosen to desert at Blogia and had her as our third lieutenant instead of Renard.
[X] [GARRET] "Surely Her Majesty has some course of action in mind."
"Our Izzy? Why, you might very well count on it," Garret replies confidently. "Wulfram has already made a grave error: in his haste, he intends to make his move before all of his pieces are in place. When he delivers his ultimatum, his Houseguards will still be on the march to the city, and parts of the fleet may not yet be wholly under Crittenden's control. Her Majesty already has a plan in mind to take advantage of that."
"And what is to be our part in it?" you ask.
"When the day comes, Her Majesty wants the regiment at her disposal," Garret replies. "When you depart for the Cortes session, she wants all three squadrons formed up here on the parade ground: horses tacked and saddled, carbines loaded, sabres sharpened, and with a double-load of powder and shot per man—ready for action, in other words."
You nod. "The men cannot know the true purpose for such preparations, lest they speak of it where they might be overheard. We can tell them it is nothing more than an inspection or an exercise."
Your subordinate nods. "Then we will avoid telling them the truth until they're needed."
"And what is the truth, exactly?" you ask, somewhat curious yourself. "You've told me what the Queen expects of me, but not the reason of it. What purpose does she intend to put the regiment to when the time comes?"
Garret answers with a shrug and that customary grin. "I suppose we shall find out when the time comes."
-
The next week passes slowly. Time does not advance so much as drag itself from morning to afternoon to evening, as if creation itself were dreading the reckoning to come.
There are times when the situation seems…if not normal, then something like the routine which the regiment had settled into since its arrival, a state of affairs dominated by patrol schedules and regular drill and disciplinary actions, where hope still exists that the Duke of Wulfram and the Queen might come to some peaceable settlement, and the militias prowling the streets might stow away their weapons and go home. A state of affairs where the inspection you've ordered for the day that you know Wulfram is to press his ultimatum is nothing more than that.
And then there are moments when you find yourself mentally counting down the days to that Cortes session, simply out of the reassurance which might be gleaned from the knowledge that there remains some time left before the matter finally comes to a head. That there is yet time to do…something which might in one way or another alter the fate which now seems so inevitable.
But what can you do?
[ ] [NEXT] There are yet things I can do to make certain the regiment's loyalty.
[ ] [NEXT] I can make sure the men are as well-drilled as possible.
[ ] [NEXT] I'll do my best to restore the regiment's fighting spirit—they may soon have need of it.
[ ] [NEXT] I ought to see if there's anything I can do at the club.
On another note, I'm somewhat surprised that none of you have commented on the fact that our Captain Garret is a girl. Then again, we don't know her nearly as well as we might have had we chosen to desert at Blogia and had her as our third lieutenant instead of Renard.
Yeah, pretty much. It explains why she's acting as the Espionage Tutorial Companion, but that's about it.
The only reason it's significant is that the author had previously mentioned that one of the characters was pulling a Polly Oliver, and a lot of people thought it might have been Elson.
[X] [NEXT] There are yet things I can do to make certain the regiment's loyalty.
The Dragoons have more or less accepted your command by now. The year which you spent in command of Second Squadron has done for the new men what your long years of service in Antar did for the old, and you're now a familiar face amongst them as well. They obey your commands, and respect your authority—for the most part.
Yet you're keenly aware that the force behind that authority is the belief that you're leading the regiment in the defence of Tierra and its people. In the days ahead, that understanding is sure to be challenged, as you may well be compelled to order your men to do earnest battle against their own countrymen—and if that is to be the case, you must ensure that they're more loyal to you than any other authority which might cause them to flinch, or even mutiny.
So, you make something of a tour of the regiment, speaking to the common soldiers, listening to their grievances, making whatever promises you can to cement their loyalty. You listen as well, taking careful note of their reactions, their choice of words, any indications of their disposition towards you.
It is not so difficult an assessment to make. Soldiers are not creatures of subtlety, especially to those who have lived amidst them for years and years. The men of Second Squadron, for example, speak of you only in terms of respect, even esteem. They will follow where you lead them.
First Squadron is a different story. In practise, they ought to owe their loyalty more to their own commanding officer than the commander of the regiment. Normally, that wouldn't be so much of a concern, Captain Sandoral being so well-accustomed a comrade-at-arms. However, you suspect his own hold over his command to remain somewhat shaky, which may cause problems.
And then there's Third Squadron: the less numerous and perhaps still the best-drilled and most veteran of your squadrons. You have no need to listen to their talk to know where their loyalties lie. They answer to Hawkins, and Hawkins answers to Cazarosta, which means its loyalty will be contingent upon his.
…whatever that may be.
But the next few days see fit to ply you with only further causes for concern.
Less than a week before the Cortes is to meet, you're sitting in your office when you're informed of a coach pulling up to the parade ground. By the time you have a chance to step outside and greet its occupant, it is already pulling away. Apparently, the gentleman in the coach had no business with you at all. Instead, according to the sentry, he came only to visit the quartermaster's office, to speak to 'the gentleman within,' whom you can only imagine to be Sir Caius d'al Cazarosta.
It's only when the crest on the body of the coach is described to you do you recognise it as belonging to the Earl of Castermaine.
"I wouldn't worry quite so much about it, sir," Garret replies when you bring your concerns about the day's events to her. "I'm sure any such attempts on the Duke of Wulfram's part will come to naught."
Yet you find your subordinate's confidence difficult to match. "But should we not secure some manner of assurance in that regard?" you ask. "If Wulfram is able to turn Cazarosta to his side, then he may well take Third Squadron with him. Can we really afford to take that risk?"
Garret answers with a curious look. "With respect, sir, of all the officers in the regiment, you have the warmest relations with the man, even more than Hawkins. Indeed, you might be the closest thing to a friend he has. Surely such a relation ought to entitle him to some trust on your part." She gives you a look of reassurance. "He'll do the right thing in the end, I think we can depend on that."
You can only hope she's right.
-
The day itself dawns unseasonably pleasant, a warm breeze under a rare blue sky. It's a good omen, though you cannot help but wonder whom it's meant for.
It is a question which only increases in urgency when you arrive at the Cortes chamber to find Wulfram and all of his supporters absent. The mood at the Royalist benches is tense. You take your seat amongst a cloud of anxious whispers and hushed rumours. Some say he has fled the city in the night. Others that this is but a distraction, and that he's already putting his real plan into motion elsewhere. Everyone has an opinion, none know for sure.
It's half an hour before you get a real answer, but it is far from a reassuring one. Wulfram is coming, and so are all of his allies, and with them is a sizeable crowd of armed supporters.
You see the Queen whisper something to Lefebvre, who passes a folded note to one of the Grenadiers at the door. The sound of booted footsteps echo through the halls of the Northern Keep, and then subside.
More encouraging news, now: the mob has been stopped by the Grenadiers at the gate. Wulfram and his supporters are coming through alone. Yet when they come through the entryway, they do not disperse to take their seats. They march through the doors as a group, packed as close as a marching column.
And some of them are in uniform: Brockenburg and Crittenden and a handful of others.
The significance doesn't escape you. They're sending a message, that they represent today not only their own fiefs, but the drilled and armed men they command. It's as open a threat of armed rebellion as they might declare without saying the words.
And then the Duke of Wulfram steps forward, as proud and straight-backed as he had been when you first saw him. He produces a folded sheet of heavy, stiff parchment.
And he begins to speak.
"We, the assembled members of the Cortes, in a spirit of conciliation and in the interests of the good of the realm, do present the following petition before the Queen's Majesty."
The Duke of Wulfram's voice fills the chamber, flowing with more power than you've ever heard it carry before, rising with what seems like every word, every phrase. Some of your fellows clench their teeth, their knuckles white as Wulfram enumerates his grievances and lists requests which every man present knows are only demands. Some reach for their belts, for swords which they do not wear. Some only glance nervously at the men standing with Wulfram, and towards the Queen, sitting silently in her seat with all the cool impassivity of a statue.
"It is for these abuses and disorders that we, the undersigned, do petition Her Majesty's government to appoint a government with the powers to ensure the loyalty and the competence of the offices of state, to deal appropriately with those found derelict in their duties, and to punish those who are discovered to have committed those grave offenses which we have enumerated."
There is an anger there, obscured but not hidden, a steel gauntlet under a velvet glove. It gives Wulfram's voice an unyielding property, one that grows stronger and stronger as his voice rises, until the velvet is threadbare enough for you to glimpse the shimmer of burnished metal underneath.
"It is by great extremity that we have been compelled to such action, and it is out of respect for the oaths we yet bear that we deliver a petition, instead of resorting to measures which may yet cause the Crown and the realm greater distress. However, should this matter not be resolved within the course of a week, we the undersigned will see no possible option but to set such aforementioned measures in motion, for the good of the realm and its people."
So there it is. Wulfram means to give the Queen a week to accept his ultimatum. That explains a great deal. A week would be enough time for Castermaine's assembled army of Houseguards to arrive, for Crittenden's fleet to be fully prepared for action, for the Takarans to smuggle and distribute who knows how many arms into the city. Despite all of his talk of respect, it seems clear to you that a week's delay serves no purpose but to make Wulfram's position unassailable.
But when the Queen is presented the text of the petition, she only glances at it for a moment before setting it aside. When she looks up again, it's clear that she doesn't intend to give Wulfram a week.
"Grenadiers. Arrest these men."
There's a moment of shocked silence, both from the Wulframites and your own fellows. Nobody was expecting this, not so suddenly.
Then, everything happens at once.
The Grenadiers at the door move to obey their orders, but an instant too late. You see Brockenburg kick one with the vicious force of a street brawler, seizing the orange-coated soldier's musket as he falls. The other is all but swarmed under by half a dozen of Wulfram's followers, the Earl of Crittenden at their head.
Panick bursts among the Royalist benches like a mortar bomb, with half a hundred voices shouting for half a hundred things and scrambling in half a hundred directions.
And you're right in the middle.
[ ] [ACTION] I must stay down, stay low, wait for this to blow over.
[ ] [ACTION] The guards! I must call for more guards!
[ ] [ACTION] I rush the traitors! There's no time for anything else!
[ ] [ACTION] A traitor with a loaded musket is within thirty paces of my sovereign! Protect the Queen!
[X] [ACTION] A traitor with a loaded musket is within thirty paces of my sovereign! Protect the Queen!
"The Queen!" you shout as you vault over the benches, struggling past heavy oaken railings and the bodies of your own politickal allies as you scramble towards your sovereign. "Protect the Queen!"
You don't know if anyone heeds you, but at least one man has anticipated you. Colonel Lefebvre is already standing before the Gryphon Throne, his sword drawn, his body positioned precisely betwixt Brockenburg and sovereign. You take your place next to him. His eyes flick towards you, his features twitching with what might be approval, though you both know that there's very little you can do without a weapon, save perhaps shield the Queen with your own body.
But there will be no need for that.
Wulfram and his allies are already retreating, the last of them withdrawing through the main doors as the first orange-coated Grenadiers burst into the upper galleries. A moment later, more come through the side doors and the main entrance, muskets at the ready and bayonets fixed.
The pounding of blood in your ears begins to subside as the newly arriving troops shoulder their weapons and secure the chamber, but it's only when you turn to see the Queen entirely unharmed behind you that you allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief.
You could have imagined the Queen to respond with any number of strong sentiments: fury at having been delivered so brazen a challenge in the seat of her own power, triumph in knowing how ignominiously that attempt has failed, even perhaps fear—caught betwixt the ebbing wave of mortal peril and the deeper oncoming swell of uncertainty.
But no, when the Queen speaks, it is with a prepossessed calm so perfect that even a professional soldier might have been envious of it.
"My lords," she begins, "we fear that recent developments have placed us all in some degree of peril, but rest assured that arrangements have been made to ensure your safety. We must oblige you to remain within the inner chambers of this building until the crisis is past."
There's an undertone of warmth there, perhaps even graciousness, as if she were a hostess apologising for the absence of a particular type of cake, rather than a sovereign suddenly facing armed rebellion from one of her most powerful subjects.
But that softness proves to be more for the benefit of your more jumpy peers than anyone else. When she turns to the commander of her bodyguard, any trace of it is gone.
"Lefebvre, you will form up your men and organise a defence of this building," she declares, every word backed with an ice-cold resolution. "If the traitors flee, occupy the gatehouse and secure it against attack. If they resist, seek defensible positions as you see fit."
Then she turns to you.
"Lord Reddingfield, I must hope you have not expended all of your courage yet," she says, her voice filled with a quiet respect. "There is a fast horse waiting for you at the postern gate. Return to your regiment and bring them here at all haste. We shall trap the traitors betwixt the Grenadiers and your Dragoons."
With a steady grace, she rises from her throne, her features like cold steel. "If Wulfram would have me hand over the powers of the Crown in the face of a veiled threat, as if this country were a bauble to be surrendered to a footpad, then he is much mistaken. If he wishes to make himself master of Tierra, then by all the Saints, he best be prepared to bleed for it!"
CHAPTER XI
In which the LORD OF THE CORTES is OBLIGED to TAKE UP ARMS in earnest against his OWN COUNTRYMEN.
The breeze whips at your face and snatches at your hair as you gallop down the streets of Aetoria, the blood thundering in your ears all but drowning out the beat of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles. You jab your spurs once more into the flanks of your borrowed horse. He's almost blown now, but you're almost there, and your own mount is in the stables of the Southern Keep, hopefully still waiting for you.
So you ride on, as hard as you can, allowing yourself not the luxury to spare a thought for the animal you're currently running into the ground as you ride as if fire and thunder and the mother of all storms were behind you.
And perhaps it is.
You don't need to spare a glance over your shoulder to see and hear the city rousing behind you with such a scale and fury as to make the disturbances of the past year seem like nothing more than the furtive shifts of a sleeping man. Swarms of men and women and children blur past, heaping boxes and furniture into barricades. Ahead, shouts of alarm echo through the streets with a speed which no rider might match. Behind, the first sounds of musketry and battle rise through emerging plumes of smoke. Screams and battle-cries swell and tremble, and every once in a while give way to desperate, victorious cheers as this street militia or that gang celebrate momentary triumphs over their foes.
Most seem to be for the Queen, only a few for the Duke of Wulfram, but you don't know how long that will last.
The relief you feel when you see the gates of the Southern Keep open and the sentries still at their posts is almost shocking in its sharpness. As you ride through into the courtyard and slide off your saddle, you can feel the tension evaporate from betwixt your shoulderblades as you see the whole of the regiment stood up in kit, their horses tacked up next to them.
Or at least, almost all of it.
"Where is Third Squadron?" you ask as your officers approach to greet you.
"Gone."
"What happened?"
"They were assembled with the rest of us when Sir Caius came out of the stables with his own mount," Garret replies. "He nodded to Captain Hawkins, and the two of them led Third Squadron out of the gate without another word. We didn't even realise what they were doing until they had already left." She shakes her head. "It was the uncanniest thing, sir. Almost as if it was rehearsed."
Maybe it was. Perhaps Sir Caius has chosen his side after all. Or perhaps he's simply playing some other game, serving out orders from a different source. You can only hope for both your sakes that it means you're still on the same side.
But whatever his reasons, the consequence is clear. You've just lost a great number of your most veteran and perhaps best-trained men.
And they're not all you've lost. A quick roll call reveals that more than a dozen of First Squadron's men are missing. As for your own, Second Squadron is short more than half a dozen men, a worrying development.
But you have precious little time to dwell. You're in command of the regiment now, and your officers and men are still looking to you for direction.
What's left of them, in any case.
Captain Garret is the first to nod when you relay your orders from the Queen and summarise the situation outside the walls.
"If that is the case, sir, we shall have precious little time to lose," she replies. "If the Grenadiers are holding the Northern Keep alone, and the city mob is rising in the streets, then any delay we allow will only make matters worse. The men are loaded and the horses are saddled. I suggest we depart immediately."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Sandoral interjects worriedly. "It's one thing to move unmolested through the city as a single rider, but quite another to take two full squadrons of horse. Our passage will be noticed, and with gangs of Wulfram's supporters on the streets, it is not entirely unlikely that we shall have to fight our way through. There may be some…confusion amongst the men if they're not prepared for the possibility."
Garret shakes her head. "That shall require time which we do not have. The Queen is counting on us to ride to her aid as quickly as possible."
"Damn me," Blaylock remarks, almost slyly. "I didn't think you so ardent a Royalist, Garret. What else are you hiding from us?"
"Nothing to concern yourself over, Blaylock," Garret replies before turning to you, a surprising amount of urgency in her features. "If you judge some form of preparation to be necessary, then pray make them quickly. Every passing moment will only bring more of Wulfram's supporters to the streets. We cannot afford to lose any moment which we can spare."
[ ] [TURN] There's no time to waste! We need to go now!
[ ] [TURN] I'll spend one turn doing one of the following PREP actions.
[ ] [TURN] Time is of the essence - we can only afford two turns.
[ ] [TURN] Three turns ought to be enough time to prepare.
[ ] [TURN] We can't rush into things unprepared - check every PREP box!
[ ] [PREP] "I'll give the men one last inspection."
[ ] [PREP] "I must address the regiment, make sure the situation is clear to them."
[ ] [PREP] "If we must fight, I mean to be prepared; fetch me my sword and armour!"
[ ] [PREP] "We still have reserves, we should use them to replace our losses."
[X] [TURN] I'll spend one turn doing one of the following PREP actions. [X] [PREP] "I'll give the men one last inspection."
No time for more... and we're an Int person, we'll just have to be clever and not try to tank bullets, so I think this is better than Armor. If we could give good speeches, a speech would help... but we can't. And while reserves are nice, it'd dilute our already... less than great troops.
I think the inspection will probably impact either Morale or Discipline, and BOTH of them desperately need help right now.
I don't think a single action will hurt... I just think that more than a single one will. Edging out even a small bonus to either Discipline or Morale could mean the difference between success and failure, in my opinion.
(Though I certainly like this vote more than a "do 2, or 3, or 4 actions" vote.)
[X] [TURN] I'll spend one turn doing one of the following PREP actions.
[X] [PREP] "If we must fight, I mean to be prepared; fetch me my sword and armour!"
I don't think a single action will hurt... I just think that more than a single one will. Edging out even a small bonus to either Discipline or Morale could mean the difference between success and failure, in my opinion.
(Though I certainly like this vote more than a "do 2, or 3, or 4 actions" vote.)
I think that the fact that our troops are going to be street fighting, something they don't have experience with (and we went out of the way to try to avoid massacring people in the streets... up to now) means that it actually will be useful advice to them that will matter. All the actions must have the potential to do some good, I don't think there's a "trick choice" just trying to decide how much time to prepare and what actions help preparations best.
But I can see your point, and I think if it's not "one and inspection" I'd prefer "zero" @Rogue Attican
It's a trade-off. Spend time now, spend time later, always spend time and be late etc. I just don't see checking if everyone's tunic is buttoned correctly or telling them that Wulfram's evil as the most valuable use of our time.
