NationStates Jolt Archive

The note from his nation's Co-President was almost enough to make Phillippe Thibaudet sit up.

He did actually rise up on one elbow from the couch on which his slight form was extended to ask, "Was Dicey drunk when she wrote that?"

"I'd say not, High Priest," John McGonagle said huffily. As Departmental Head of the Department of Being In Charge of Things Like This, he disapproved of
Thibaudet's casual suggestion that the nation's reluctant Head of State might ever be three sheets in the wind.

However, as a practical member of the Ardchoillean Administration, he had to admit it did happen. Occasionally. Whenever the Strangers' Bar was open.

But this note bore every sign of sobriety. It was properly folded into a perfectly flight-worthy paper aeroplane, it was written in relatively normal English and it didn't trail off at the end into kisses, hearts and tear-drenched laments over the loss of this or that comely ambassador's affections.

It did, however, contain a very odd proposition.

"I think this guy's serious," Dicey wrote. "And I think it would be fun. So I said we would, if we could, and I'm passing it on to you to see if we can. Besides, look what he's offering!

Stapled to this was what looked like a page torn from a school exercise book. In blotchy biro and pencil (the biro obviously having run out half-way through) was written the first diplomatic missive Ardchoille had ever received from the Home Planets:

"Hey, I hear you guys can do magic stuff. Can you make me a weapon that turns attackers into figs? We want to turn the soldiers it hits back into people after the battle's over. But we'll keep their figgy tanks and things because we like figs. They always come in handy.

If you get this right we'll take all your Cat apprentices that Skinny 87 left behind."

"And it's signed, 'The Robzors'," McGonagle said.

Thibaudet found the whole thing hard to believe. He tried a series of minor "tell-me-true" spells on the note, but nothing dodgy turned up. The writer was evidently sincere.

Not too well-informed, though, or he'd know that the nation of Skinny 87 had returned from its adventures and the Cat apprentices were happily back at work on their complex engineering projects.

Come to think of it, Dicey should have known that, too. Wasn't she bedding one of their high-ups ... what was his name ... Lanchester?

And surely Bast would have known as well. One of his kittens was part of the Skinny 87 student exchange.

Ah, forget it. Thinking about the activities of his nation's UN delegation was a sure recipe for a migraine. It was probably all part of some insanely involved UNOG double-triple-bluff. Besides, he didn't really care what they did, provided it didn't cost too much or force him to be polite to that lunatic from OmigodtheykilledKenny.

This figgy question, though, was just the sort of thing he could really get his teeth into. Well, not literally; figs had too many small seeds. Which would make re-integrating the enemy humans a bit of a problem. You wouldn't want, say, a human leg suddenly reconstituting itself in someone else's stomach half-way through the digestive process ...

Thibaudet's face assumed the odd Wizard Thinking expression that the inexperienced often misread as Wizard Asleep.

John McGonagle, who wasn't inexperienced, sighed. He would get no more sense out of the High Priest.

But he really should discuss the implications of the request with someone in authority. Ardchoille was supposed to be a neutral nation. If they started going around selling weapons, even unbelievable, improbable, unsupportable magical weapons, they'd lose their protected status.

Yet nothing was going to turn Thibaudet aside now from his intellectual quest.
Nor would the UN pair want anything more to do with a problem they'd successfully dumped into the lap of Administration.

The answer was all too clear. Desperately though he wanted to avoid the chore, McGonagle was going to have to talk to the High Priest's sister, Mme Feline Thibaudet.

Which meant he was also going to have to talk to the High Priest's nephew-in-law, the renowned Thierry La Fronde. And (McGonagle fumbled desperately at the door of the liquor cabinet) ... Isis.