NationStates Jolt Archive

Veritas hardly looked like a city that had been bombed almost back to the stone age just a few years ago. But then, it had never been much to start with. It crouched along the wide banks of the Jaizar like a great termite colony. At one time, it had been a divine command that nothing was to exceed the great temple to Ibrahaim in height, but now that temple lay in piles of rubble in what had once been Veritas’ nice district.

Only the ancient Senate buildings, which had never been used to host a democratic body, survived those terrible bombs which had rained from the sky that fateful night. Most people might have been broken by the sight of their capital torn asunder, their God and Emperor a penniless exile, and their ancient homeland brutally occupied, but not the Effitians. They had rallied around Ibrahaim XVII’s son, also named Ibrahaim, even if he had been born in a foreign land under a barbarian king and by a savage. They had rebuilt, repopulated, and rearmed within the space of half a generation. Their new, eleven year old Pater had been smuggled out of the Golden Quarry and was triumphantly paraded through the streets of Veritas. Effit was a country again on the rise.

The lights at the Senate burned brightly in the quickly approaching dusk. Sir David Byris, Knight Commander of the Order of the Pedal, crouched humbly before the central dais upon which sat the boy-god.

“You may rise,” said Ibrahaim XVIII at last. His words and manner were perfect, but there was something distinctly strange in hearing them enunciated by that boyish voice.

“And what business does the Ambassador of His Javian Majesty have to present to His Divinity Pater Meus?” That was Ibrahaim’s right hand man, M. Calunius Didanio, who would continue to serve as His Divinity’s regent in earthly affairs.

“Should it please the court Patri,” said Sir David, still prostrate before Ibrahaim, “I come here on bended knee to beg a favor of His Divinity on behalf of my lord and master.”

“Speak further,” said Didanio, bending closer, “What could His Javian Majesty, a mighty King of the Shield, possibly want from the Patria? We are such a poor and humble state compared to --”

“Enough, Marce!” exclaimed Ibrahaim in his high voice. “Let the man speak!”

Didanio made a peculiar gesture, waving the index and middle finger of his right hand in a tight circle and pressing them against his chin. He said nothing, and Sir David assumed he was free to continue.

“Please, Your Divinity,” he pleaded, “You must know that our humble country is under siege by the revolutionaries. All ready, they have taken Mansford and are besieging Thorntree. His Javian Majesty cannot let that shameful display be repeated in His Javian Majesty’s realm.”

“Let the Shieldians burn,” wheezed one of fourteen old men assembled on a single bench to the Pater’s left. “What have they ever given us besides misery, poverty, and pestilence?” There were murmurs of assent all through the bench.

“It is clear,” replied another, “That His Divinity has unleashed this ...Bradsworth, is it? as a plague to punish your people for their transgressions against him.” Again, there was a general mumbling. Through all of it, Sir David remained on one knee with his head bowed to the Pater.

“Men of the Senate,” said Didanio, turning to address the bench. “It is clear that we have brought the arrogant Shieldians to their knees! They are at our mercy! His Divinity -”

“His Divinity is quite capable of speaking for himself,” came the squeaky voice from atop the dais. “It is true the might of the Shieldian Empire wanes; but we would be foolish to dismiss their messenger so quickly. Tell me, David Knight of the Pedal, what is it that His Javian Majesty wishes?”

“An alliance, Your Divinity. An alliance between the Javian Kingdom of the Foothills and the Effitian Patria. He hopes that Your Divinity will be so gracious as to grant us that.”

There followed a couple seconds of silence. And then the senate and the regent burst out into laughter. Still, Sir David kept his head bowed and tried to stop his cheeks from burning red.

“An alliance with a Shieldian state?” demanded Didanio, recovering his composure with remarkable speed. “Absolutely out of the question! Unthinkable!”

“And His Javian Majesty’s intent with this alliance?” asked the Pater.

“His Javian Majesty is frankly afraid that the mighty armies which the so-called United Kingdom of the Shield has amassed to destroy his neighbor. His Javian Majesty fears those forces might be turned against him. His Javian Majesty also knows that, with an ally as powerful and glorious as the Patria, the pretenders in Ianapalis would not dare move into his realm.”

“Well spoken, David Knight. You do your master good service in my court.”

“You honor me with such a high compliment, Your Divinity.”

“May I remind His Divinity,” said Didanio through gritted teeth, “that we’re dealing not with mere rebel states, but rather the hated Shieldians?”

“I am quite aware of that,” replied the high pitched voice. “Marce, you have served me well as my hand on Earth, and I should greatly dislike to lose you.”

The implication was clear enough. Didanio made the strange gesture with his index and middle finger again and fell silent.

“David Knight, you may report to you master,” said Ibrahaim, “that His Divinity is quite willing to seek an alliance with the Javian Kingdom and simply awaits the arrival of their formal negotiation team.”

“I thank Your Divinity for Your keen and wise insight in this situation on behalf of His Javian Majesty,” replied Sir David, standing at last and bowing again. He exited the chamber with his back never turning to the Pater. On his way out, Sir David had just enough time to exchange a subtle yet meaningful glance with Didanio; the hatred in the other man’s eyes cheered him immensely.

He had completed his King’s work.

“Salve, Marce,” said D. Aeitus Cantolus, rising as the Sword of the Pater entered his office. “You grace my humble chambers with your presence.”

“A grace for you and a terror for me, Decime,” retorted Didanio sharply. “I have been ordered here to research the Javian Kingdom of the Foothills.”

“Part of the Shieldian Empire, no?” asked Cantolus rhetorically while opening a file drawer. “Yes, yes, part of the Empire - though, it isn’t the Empire any longer, is it? No, no, the United Kingdom. Such changes in this world!”

“Such changes,” agreed Didanio sarcastically. “Do you mind, Decime? I’ve an important engagement in not a quarter-hour.”

“Of course, Interrex,” said Cantolus, at last picking out a thin file. He switched to the formality of Didanio’s title with the other’s sharp tone. “I have it right here; sorry for the wait.[/i]”

Didanio took the file and flipped briefly through it. “Is there no more?”

“I am sorry, sorry! but we never found it necessary to keep too close tabs on the Shieldian kingdoms over the past years; who could have predicted that the Empire would fall so suddenly? We actually have more information on this Javian Kingdom than any of the others, save Shadoran.”

“Heritics and liars, the lot of them,” said Didanio while snapping the book shut. “Have you heard?”

“Surely I do not hear as much as the regent of our fine land?”

“His Divinity has gone over my head again. He orders an alliance to be signed with the Shieldians forthwith.”

“An alliance? With those treacherous swine? Inconcievable!”

“My thinking exactly. But this Dah-wid Buy-race has completely decieved the Pater himself!”

“Surely not!” gasped Cantolus.

“Should you ask me, I might say that His Divinity’s lineage is not as pure as his glorious predecessors, blessed be their names.”

“You tread dangerously close to heresy, Marce,” warned Cantolus. “You ought to be more careful.”

“Forgive me, Decime,” replied Didanio with a bow, “My passion for the Patria carries me away.”

((threadum bumpo))

(Ah, here it is! I knew that I'd seen those Effit...ians (ah!) running around somewhere. Just a tag, for now, because I'm fricking sleepy and can't read one line without half of the one below joining in ahead of time.)

“You honor me with your presence, David Knight,” said Didanio through gritted teeth. “Surely, your work at the embassy must be keeping you busy?”

“Busy enough,” replied Sir David airily. “His Divinity would like to know if you have made the Effitian changes to our treaty.”

“Do you now serve as His Divinity’s mouthpiece?”

“As far as this treaty is concerned.”

“I have completed the changes,” said Didanio, handing the folder over to Sir David, who looked through it.

“Excellent. Thank you, Marce. I’m sure His Divinity and His Javian Majesty will be quite satisfied with these changes.”

“I am glad.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I must hurry back. The last package for the week is leaving soon, and I should like these documents to be in Topton as soon as possible.”

“As always, it has been a pleasure, David Knight. Good-bye.”

As Sir David excited Didanio’s office, he nearly bumped into Senator Golana, Didanio’s next appointment. The two pardoned each other and continued on their way. Golana levered his great girth into a chair and waited until Sir David’s back was well out of view before speaking.

“What was the Shieldian doing here?” he asked sharply, his double chin wobbling with the force of his question.

“He stopped by to collect our - the Pater’s - changes to the treaty,” replied Didanio is a strangely calm tone.

“Surely this business is dangerous enough without having swine like him hanging around? If David were to hear anything, he would surely report it to the Univertsa...”

Didanio stood and smoothed out his robes. “He has not heard anything, nor will he. You worry too much, Senator.”

“And you not enough, methinks. This is a dangerous enterprise, and we would do well not to take it lightly.”

“I wonder, for which you care more, Senator: the Fatherland, or your own fat neck?”

“Damn you, Marce. The Fatherland, of course. But I should not be much use to it without a head on my shoulders.”

“You should be of even less use to it without a spine. The Univertsa shall be just as easily duped as the Senate and the guards, so long as we stick to the plan. Do you have any questions about your rôle?”

“No.”

“Then go. I have much to do before the morrow.”

“May the gods bless Pater et Patria.”

“semper vivant. Good day, Senator.”

“What have you there, David Knight?” asked Ibrahaim in the eager curiosity that twelve year olds so often exhibited.

“A present from His Javian Majesty, Your Divinity, to celebrate our new alliance. A bottle of extremely rare Foothills wine: 1898 vintage, a fine year, Your Divinity,” replied Sir David, who was kneeling with bowed head before the Pater’s dais with the bottle extended in both hands.

“Ah, how kind of His Javian Majesty! I trust, David Knight and Marce, that you would not be mind if I should test this now?”

Didanio made the odd gesture with his index and middle finger that he had displayed in court three weeks before and bowed to Ibrahaim.

“Of course not, Your Divinity,” replied Sir David, his head still bowed to the marble floor. “I should be honored.”

Ibrahaim clapped and a servant appeared from behind the throne with a glass for Ibrahaim. Another, who had been hidden behind a tapestry, came from the side of the throne room to collect the bottle from Sir David and open it.

Ibrahaim waited until his glass had been filled, then drank deeply from it. Licking his lips, he set it aside and nodded.

“An excellent vintage, David Knight. My compliments to your master.”

“Thank you, Your Divinity. I will be sure to pass them along.”

“I’ve never tasted anything quite like that,” continued Ibrahaim, though he did not raise the glass again. “Almost...almost like...almonds? Strange, yet...and yet...”

“Yes, Your Divinity?” asked Sir David, who still had not looked up through the entire interview. Only the sound of vomiting called his gaze upwards.

Ibrahaim’s young body was now lying besides his throne in a puddle of bile, a great convulsion shaking through it every second or two. His breath was coming in shallow gasps.

Didanio and Sir David both scaled the dais with great bounds, taking two or three steps at a time. From all around the throne room, burly men in the uniform of the palace guards ran towards their fallen boy-god, but all were too late. With a shudder, Ibrahaim’s respiratory system gave out at last and death glazed his eyes over. Didanio clawed at his hair and raised a great scream.

“Treachery and deceit! Most foul deed! Damnable offense!” He wheeled upon Sir David, who tried to retreat from the body. “Thrice accursed Shieldian! Is this how you repay the Pater’s trust? With lies and deception and murder? There are no words horrific enough for what you have done!” With one sudden movement, Didanio grasped the nearest handy blunt object - the wine bottle - and brought it crashing down on Sir David’s collarbone.

The Shieldian collapsed backwards into the arms of two guards as blood, spirit, and broken glass flowed from his shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” insisted Sir David, falling back into his native tongue in panic. “I haven’t done anything - King Michael would never - there’s something wrong!”

“Silence, infidel!” commanded Didanio, his voice filled with rage. “You have committed heresy enough for one man. The Effitian people will demand satisfaction!”

“No!” Sir David tried to plead, “You can’t! There was nothing wrong with the wine! Please, you must believe me! Erm, wine nothing - there was nothing wrong with the wine!”

“I shall not listen to your forked tongue,” shouted Didanio over Sir David’s protests. He produced a dagger from under his white robes and slit Sir David’s throat open from one ear to the other. The Javian diplomat never even had time to register what was happening before it was over. Didanio just stood, his narrow chest rising and falling with exertion.

“Take him out of here,” said Didanio to the guards at last. “I will not have his presence further desecrate holy ground.”

Compared to the bright lights and heavy industry of Ianapalis, Mansmouth, Vesshampton, or Fort Jackson, Topton is a distinctly provincial city. It stands atop three hills in the very shadow of the great northern mountains, guarding the entrance to the Noropian Gap. Railroad tracks branch from the capital of the Javian Kingdom of the Foothills in every direction: west to Thortraia, east to the Gamar, south to Shadoran, and north across the mountains.

The Javian Kingdom is the largest of the three ‘northern realms.’ Its population exceeds five million, or more than that of Thortraia and Mansford combined. Foothillsmen have long been famed as fierce, if undisciplined, fighters and they were often used by the Grand Empire as shock troops. A long tradition of primogeniture and reliance upon subsistence agriculture had produced generation after generation of dispossessed sons which the Javian Kingdom had never been able to accommodate.

Unable to compete in overseas commerce with the Shadoranites, who took to water like ducks, and unwilling to work in the burgeoning factories of the Southern Shield, the sons of the Foothills were forced into the army. For three hundred years, they fought and died on the steppes of Effit, in the deserts of Dianatran, and among the dense jungles and blistering grasslands of Gallaga for the greater glory of the High King.

Now, the Javian Kingdom will need every one of her sons for herself. With the revolutions in Shadoran, Wyclyfe, and Weshield and the conquest of Thortraia and Mansford, she alone stands among the Seven Kingdoms and the Grand Empire as the last bastion of royal power and tradition. Only Noropia can send the Javian Kingdom any help at all, and the blond-haired, blue-eyed soldiers of the north are raw, untrained recruits with no cultural tradition of war or military-industrial support. Against them is pitted the entire strength of Charles Bradsworth’s United Kingdom of the Shield: after their victorious troops finish the destruction of the Weshielder Republic, surely Ianapalis’ eye must turn towards the Javian Kingdom?

Only one chance remains for permanent Javian independence: the sprawling Effitian Patria. Populated by five hundred million men and women who would gladly give their life for their autocrat and dominating the enormous Effitian Steppe, the Patria lords over every map of Tilsitia, casting a long shadow over every other state. The United Kingdom could not fight both the Foothills and a resurgent Effit - a defensive alliance with the Patria would secure the position of the Javian Kingdom to negotiate on even terms with Bradsworth, much as Beth Gellert’s implied protection had done for humble Wyclyfe.

In Dûn Entrâne, that ancient fortress overlooking the city, King Michael of the Foothills waited with his privy council as the latest diplomatic bags from Effit were taken in. Sir David Byris, the Javian Kingdom’s ambassador to the Curia Patri, had last reported that Effit was ready to sign the agreement. It wasn’t as favorable to Michael as he would have liked, but the document would prevent Shadoranite domination in his lands. The one and only package from Byris’ Veritas Station, a small box, was brought out. A servant opened it.

“There’s a note on top,” he reported, reaching inside. “It reads: ‘All Shieldians will burn.”

”What?” asked Michael’s prime minister in confusion. “That hardly...”

“There’s something in here,” said the servant, reaching into the box. The hand was withdrawn as quickly as if it had been bitten by an adder. “It’s...it’s Sir David’s head!”