NationStates Jolt Archive

In the dusty confines of a simple fisherman’s home, where the word democracy had never been spoken and nations like Sarzonia, Pactitalia, and Hogsweat were only whispered as rumors of terrible powers in far-off lands, it was dark. Light seeped in only from the doorway and from beneath the hastily drawn canvas on a bare window, and where it fell the dust caught and gathered and stirred in the air as it would in all the dusty places of the world. Yet this was not just any place in the world, but in the eyes of the dark-skinned fisherman, and his sons, and his daughters, and his wife with her dirty shawl all huddled together in their single room it was the very center of the axis on which the globe turned.

Electricity had only recently come to this household, like so many others through the miracles of government programs which ran the noisy little generator in to corner and gave them light and water and stability in the only world they knew. Thus, the television – black and white and small by our measure – which cast its own light across the cramped room was something of a miracle in this place, as was the image which danced across its tiny screen.

On the black and white screen, old cuneiform script blazed. “We are Katmak,” it read. “Glorious among our fellow man.” Images flashed beneath the changing script. Mosques, palaces, trees, fields, and the vast ocean. All things beautiful on the tiny island. “We are strength.” Images of the military. Aircraft, shrieking like banshees across the screen. Uniforms and rifles passing by, rank and file. “We are prosperity.” The offshore refinery, the smokestacks belching into the sunset. “Beloved and blessed.” Worshipers walking to the Katmar Grand Mosque. Scenes of its dome in the sunrise. Then, rising out of the flurry of scenes, came the face of the Sultan himself. “I am Isimud Katmar XIV, and you are my people. You are my strength.” A picture of the smiling commoners, crowding at the doors of the royal palace. “For the Sultan, we give.” More smiling faces. “For the nation, we give. For the Katmars, even my life.”

The fisherman slept with his family that night, as he had each night before, and as he would until they day he died. For him, contentment was simple and easily found – though perhaps out of ignorance – somewhere between his family and his ‘mighty’ nation. Farther inland, away from the harbor and settled behind the monstrous stone walls of the Katmar Royal Palace, things were somewhat more complicated.

“My Lord,” one of the nameless servants who scurried about daily orchestrating the will of their royal masters said in little more than a whisper. As the lord turned, the servant knelt, letting the white linen of his robes touch the carpet beneath his feet.

“Your future Sultan bids you rise.” The voice of the servant’s master was harsh, even the finely accented Sumerian grating over his ears. “What word do you have tonight?”

The servant took to his feet, but dared not approach farther than the doorway of the Crown Prince’s room. Some before him had tried to enter unbidden, and some before him had been flung from the prince’s window to the courtyard stories below. “From the Sultan’s chambers there is no word. The doctors and imams have done what they can, but nothing will change his condition. Though it grieves me, I confess it has been said h will not last they year.”

“Tell me, why does this grieve you? Are you a servant of Sultan and tied to his fate?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then why must his ailment grieve you? Might it not benefit one in such a position as yours?”

“I leave that matter to the grace of you, highness.” He bowed slightly. “But I grieve out of respect for the royal family, of whose blood I am not.”

“Very well.” The prince turned back to the open window. “What other news is there?”

“The building of the oil facility offshore – "

“Yes, the refinery, go on.”

“It has been completed, or so it has been said.”

“This far ahead of schedule? Wonderful. I will have to inspect the facility.” The prince began to pace, turning to walk along the full length of his chamber before returning to his original position at the window. “This year you will see me take my father’s place at the throne, and with his passing I will inherit the whole of Katmar. With the oil we now have access to, my wealth will be boundless.”

“Yes, my prince.” The servant bowed again. “Forgive me for saying, but is it not true that without a market this new found wealth it will be of little value?”

“Do not presume to tell me what is and is not needed.” Though betraying little in manner or voice, the prince was apparently agitated by the observation. His servant stepped back through the door. “And either way I have the royal seal just as my father does. I can send emissaries and broker agreements even outside Katmar.”

“And of your father’s ban on such diplomacy?”

“Isolationist foolishness. In a few days I will be my father, and all his decrees will mean nothing. In the meantime, he is bedridden – no? He can do nothing, and his advisors have no power over me. I am Crown Prince, and my word will be taken as law – if not now then soon enough. Come, gather a pen and ink. My words will not fall on deaf ears, and I will not be stopped…”