NationStates Jolt Archive

1. All things come to he who waits. Mostly boredom.

The Emperor of Kharanjul, Divine Light of the Kharanji People, Chosen One of the Gods, Destroyer of Enemies, Monarch of the Imperium, shifted his aching weight slightly in an effort to direct his gaze out the big picture window that occupied most of the near wall of his bedchamber and looked out upon the forested grounds below the Palace, that in turn stretched away into a wild and infinite landscape of rocky crags, wooded glens and uprearing peaks.

He was dying. He knew it; and so, he thought, did his numerous retainers and attendants, although they pretended he was continually on the verge of recovery and could be persuaded back to healthful life if he would only try the latest remedy (all of which, the Emperor knew, were in fact poison).

One of these attendants now moved forward, but with a feeble gesture the Emperor waved him back, a little impatiently. Then he spoke, in a voice that -- despite being cracked with age and illness -- still commanded almost divine authority in his subordinates. Dying or not, he was still the Emperor. "Go, and fetch me pen and paper."

The attendant bowed deeply and backed noiselessly out of the room, his footsteps tapping down the hallway, and the Emperor was alone. He reflected: He was dying now and he had no male heir. All his relatives were dead, for the simple reason that he had killed them, on one pretext or another; an illegitimate brother had been put in charge of a military division that was wiped out in the siege of Candoria, a cousin had been tasked with clearing part of the jungle to build a factory, an uncle had been caught plotting assassination and shot dead, a nephew had simply disappeared (such things were not unheard of). This was standard practice for an Emperor ascending to the throne of Kharanjul. And when an Emperor died with no biological heir, it was standard practice for him to appoint a regent, who would shortly be assassinated by whoever was powerful enough to do so.

But the Emperor had always wanted to do something non-standard: something that would surprise, perhaps even shock a little.

The attendant arrived with the pen and paper, and the Emperor propped himself up among his pillows and laid them carefully out on a little tray table. And he began to write.

elsewhere....

It was very rare, in Kharanjul, to find women in universities; rarer still for them to be among the students and even faculty. That the Academy of Saint Helena was the only such institution in the nation was largely the work of one woman, who wielded her family's influence adroitly enough to overcome a society's age-old traditions. In its most august offices, deep within the severely classical Administrative Building, Katerina Valandova reread the last line of the last piece of written correspondence for the day and carefully replaced it in its envelope, setting it aside with the other letters (although it was immediately distinguishable from them due to the old-fashioned wax seal).

She turned her head, a little expectantly. "Madame Kuzentsina!" she said. "Do come in."

The door to her office opened, rather timidly, and the older woman peered in. "Madame Valandova! I thought you'd gone home for the evening." Her voice bore a hint of reproach.

"There is always more work to do," Katerina Valandova said, raising herself to her full imperial height of five feet, eleven and a half inches. "How may I help you?"

"I was looking for, er," Madame Kuzentsina's train of thought began to run out of fuel, "ah, the reports from Danilov. And Slava thought, er, that they might be in your office."

They're in it together, Katerina smiled. My vice-president and my secretary. Of course, I suppose everyone is. They've heard rumours. And they know who I am....

Aloud: "Madame Kuzentsina, -- as you have guessed, I may be going away for some time soon. Unscheduled, unfortunately, but I have no doubt that you and your colleagues will be able to run things admirably." She'd been planning the wording of this announcement for a while now.

"Illness in the family, perhaps?" Madame Kuzentsina said slyly.

"Perhaps." Katerina almost winked. "I shall have to speak with... my father."

"Ah," said the vice-president with deep satisfaction. "Yes."

The heat of the day finally gave way, as night fell, to the bone-chilling cold of the summer night; for here in the mountains the tropical climate of the rest of the island only asserted itself strongly during the daylight hours. And a train slowly wound its way along tortuous hills towards the high rocky outcrop where the Emperor kept his final vigil. Inside it, his daughter studied his missive, and counted letters. It kept her calm.

Days passed. Jakob Leon was aware that something new was in the air. Ever since Katerina Valandova's arrival, and her occasional (completely private, of course) conversations with the Emperor, he had sensed that things were changing; there was more activity on the part of the servants, in places where there usually was not any activity at all.

Of course, that was almost everywhere. The Winter Palace was huge, and rumour had it that there was an entire wing that nobody ever went into, where antique valuable furniture and works of art collected dust. (Rumour had it that there were other things in that wing that people tried to ignore the existence of, of course; and rumour had much more, mostly by the trouser leg.) During most of the year, it was only the Emperor, his servants, and the civil staff, all of whom used up only the south wing of the Winter Palace. But due to the activity, Leon -- who knew the palace reasonably well, at least, the parts of it that had been used in his lifetime -- suspected that the Palace would soon be hosting many more people.

The Ministers, all nobles, had their own offices down in Kharan City. They rarely communicated with the Emperor, nor he with them; for it was generally understood that the Emperor was merely a figurehead for conducting business of state and diplomacy, and the Ministries were the organizations that actually ran the country. Contact between them was generally unnecessary. But now the Ministers were coming here to the Winter Palace. (True, they did usually become involved in coronations, but generally only tangentially via their assassins and spies.) And Leon thought there might be other guests, too; foreigners, perhaps. Nobody was officially listening in on the private conversations in the Emperor's chamber, but surprisingly many people knew what was being said.

A voice near Leon's head spoke. "Lord Moritz has arrived at the Romanov Gate."

"Thank you," Leon responded, then turned off the receiver and hurried downstairs from his office. Officially, Jakob Leon held the position of Permanent Secretary to the Lord Commissioner, the only minister under direct influence of the Emperor; but currently, he was acting in the capacity of liaison to any other governmental organizations that happened to show up.

Leon and another man, Subcommissioner Karol Szeroda, were at the main door to the great palace when the limousine arrived and a tall powerful man in a captain's uniform emerged. Over six feet high and broad of shoulder, he also seemed to carry within his body a spark of personality that caused the others who followed him -- bodyguards and staff -- to be dismissed, almost as afterthoughts. Leon bowed, stepping forward slightly. "Welcome to the Winter Palace, sir."

Lord Alban Moritz smiled. "Thank you most kindly, gentlemen," he said, and followed them down the long hallway lit by discreetly concealed electric lights, his staff trailing silently behind him.

Moritz and Leon made the appropriate small talk (Szeroda remained almost completely silent, despite being technically senior in rank), although both knew who Moritz was really here to meet.

As they exited the long corridor and passed into a well-lit chamber in the heart of the palace, its windows overlooking a courtyard, two women appeared through another door. The taller and more stately of the two, Katerina Valandova, stepped forward first; she was bareheaded and her raiment bore few concessions to luxury, much as the most powerful man in Kharanjul preferred to remain in the uniform he'd worn during the Galerian War. Leon took care of the formality. "Lord Moritz: Lady Regent Katerina Valandova, and this her assistant, Madame Marika Annuvina."

Traditional attitudes towards women were, well, traditional. But Moritz had encountered foreigners before. "Enchanted," he murmured, raising Katerina's hand to his lips as an amused smile played around her face.

"I trust the journey from Kharan City was pleasant?" she said.

"Pleasant indeed, my lady," he said. "The roads were cleared from snow, the traffic fortunately reduced due to the lateness of the hour."

The small talk continued; she asking, he responding, a burst of polite laughter at a well-placed one-liner, offer of drinks (met twice by polite refusal before a gracious acceptance), introductions to the rest of the staff. At length the Lady Regent suggested that the Minister and his staff must be tired from the long journey, and deployed her assistant Madame Annuvina to show them to their rooms.

Subcommissioner Karol Szeroda, meanwhile, had returned to his office alongside Leon. Lord Moritz was the Minister of War, and due to the army's strong loyalty to him (as well as his own personality, of course) he always seemed to carry the overriding vote when the Lords convened to decide the business of the nation. But Szeroda's loyalties lay with the Lord Commissioner, a position somewhat above all of the interdepartmental politicking and infighting. The Home Ministries ran the nation; but the Commissioner ran the government. And as he picked up a sheaf of papers and reported to his superior to end the night, he smiled.

This is going to be interesting.

Szeroda entered unobtrusively, as Lord Claudio d'Asch turned and looked up at him. d'Asch was perhaps seventy, five-foot-two, and carried himself with an air of utmost refinement and nobility. "Ah, Karol. Turning in, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir." He paused. "It's going to be a long week, sir. Isn't it?"

"Longer than you suspect." d'Asch twinkled. "Would you mind me running this document by you before I send it, by the way? Were you in a hurry?"

"No, sir. I don't mind, sir."

"Excellent. So far it reads, 'Dear Sir/Madam' -- depends on the addressee -- 'On behalf of the Imperium of Kharanjul I am pleased to invite you, and any guests you may choose to bring, to the ceremony and banquet attending the coronation of Empress Katerina II. Her Imperial Majesty has expressed the great hope that, through the attendance of your gracious self, the long-delayed relations between Kharanjul and' -- here we insert the nation's name -- 'may be reopened, and would be honoured should you choose to accept this invitation.' New line. 'All travel arrangements to the Winter Palace, outside Kharan City, will be covered in full by ourselves, and accommodation in the luxurious settings of the Palace shall also be provided. We hope to see you there. Cordially, Lord Claudio d'Asch', et cetera, et cetera."

Szeroda paused for a moment. "Sounds fine, sir."

"That's good. I'll have Walther and company run off a few dozen handwritten copies in the morning, add my signature and the imperial seal and we'll be off."

"Handwritten copies take time to deliver, sir, and the coronation is in less than two weeks."

"I know, my boy, that's why we have fax machines."

[OOC:] So if you're sending a diplomat/your leader/an innocent bystander/Nyarlathotep the crawling chaos, he or she can simply show up at the door of the Winter Palace (journey by limousine through a wintry mountain range optional). I'm sure everyone has been waiting in suspense to find a decent opportunity to jump in, so here's your chance. ;)

Dramatis Personae

Emperor Anton III -- The Emperor has had four weeks to live for the last five years. But his ability to set events in motion is still unmatched.

Lady Regent Katerina -- His daughter, who inherited her father's gift of actual strength and her mother's gift of feigned weakness.

Lord Claudio d'Asch -- Lord Commissioner, in charge of the bureaucratic apparatus that usually enforces the orders of the other Ministers.

Lord Alban Moritz -- Minister of War, and de-facto ruler of Kharanjul.

Lord Milton Tremaine -- Minister of Foreign Affairs, a man of incorrigible (albeit justified) pessimism.

Lord Alberto Csaroum -- Minister of Internal Affairs and one of the most diplomatic men in the nation; one has to be, in his position.

M. Oleg Haitien -- The sinister man who wears dark glasses indoors and utters occasional bursts of maniacal laughter. Every government has one.

M. Karol Szeroda -- Lord d'Asch's most reliable henchman, and a valuable source of information to those who know what to ask.

M. Jakob Leon -- Szeroda's longtime partner in crime, a Permanent Secretary whose job it is to prevent anything useful from getting done.

Mlle. Marika Annuvina -- Katerina's former student, she is ambitious, ruthless, and makes an excellent cup of coffee.

M. Jerova Sannik -- Personal attendant to the Emperor. His loyalty to the imperial family cannot be doubted.