Allin
"Many here seem unhappy with these proceedings." Miranda remarked, as baptizer and baptized left the square under guard and their escort motioned them along towards the grain depot. "Filthy foreign religion, stranger foreign god," he replied. "Don't hold with it myself."
"Worse than the gods of Galadon, then?" She asked, pointedly. He glared. "No gods, no kings" he snapped. "That's what we was all saying before, when we run the tin men outta town. The Doctor's words, them, and the man seemed to be talking sense so everyone else listened. Then this foreign bastard priest shows up, an' starts talking to the man like he's supposed to be our king, so half everyone else's doin' the same. Where I'm standing, looks like it took less than a week for us to get another king, and him another god." He stopped suddenly at the massive double-doors of the grain depot, where two apparently former watchmen stood guard with crossed spears. "Fuck's this?"
"The Doctor's praying," said the one on the right, evidently the senior of the two. "Got the priest with him. Not to be disturbed."
"Those are your orders, eh Potts?" The customs officer flushed red. "No orders, Bill," said the watchman calmly. "Just the same, no-one goes in."
"One God, no kings, eh?"
"That's enough." Miranda stepped forward, looking very much irritated and about as imposing as a little old woman ever could be. (Which, in many ways, for many men, is very much so.). "I have traveled here from the Vasa Ascendancy to deal with your leadership, and the behest of the Emperor himself. I am done with waiting. This petty game of diplomacy and deferral amused me for a time, so I indulged it. No longer. Five seconds from now, I will be walking through those doors. Yochanan, kill anyone outside who's still trying to stop me at that time."
There was a pause while this message sank in, a shorter pause where looks of horror appeared on the guards' faces as they realized that most of their seconds had already been consumed, and a frantic scramble to clear the woman's path of any obstacles, people and doors included. She strode through with perfect timing, unimpeded, with Yochanan in tow... but did not fail to note that the doors were most definitively shut behind them. Only natural. A nice, thick set of doors between anyone and Yochanan was generally viewed by them as approximating "a good start." Piles of grain obscured the view across the enormous room, muffling the sound of voices coming from the office on the far side. They became clearer as the visitors drew closer.
"-and you'd send your soldiers. Well, I stood your bloody ritual! I want the bloody army!"
"...said no such thing-"
"Don't fuck with me! 'Accept the light and your aid will appear'. I am an educated man, priest! I know how the words rearrange! You make good, or I'll take it all back tomorrow! I'll outlaw your damn religion, I swear it!"
"I am not a diplomat." This was the priest's voice, from the square - calm, but somehow sharp. "I say the words as the thing is. Eden will send you gold, aye, and ships too. But the Army of God will not fight in your rebellion. It is needed elsewhere."
"It is needed here. People don't like rations, priest. Merchants don't like waiting, and nobody likes sharing. Every day people look at the granary a little more hungrily - aye, and the gates too. I've got no trained officers. I've got no trained soldiers. Every day, I have fewer and fewer soldiers at all. Callonburgh has nothing but mercenaries to fight for them, and they'll stop as soon as they figure they've made as much as they're going to or the merchants get tired of paying them. Whichever comes first. We've got nearly no weapons. We absolutely don't have any machinery, and nobody with the skills and knowledge to make them. We need an army... or I open the gates. They've offered generous terms. The people, they'll mock me for a coward... but they'll live to mock me, at least. And I'll live to endure it."
Deciding that the time for entry was about optimal, Miranda knocked firmly and then swept inside the little room, lit by a single candle on a single desk, strewn with paperwork, at which the doctor and the priest sat arguing on opposing ends. The doctor, who had apparently put on his funny little suit and hat since she'd seen him last, looked startled at the intrusion and made to rise, a knife in hand. He froze and sat back down when he saw Yochanan, however, the appearance of which had a comically far opposite effect on the priest. "Stand out here, and do nothing else," she told the demon, shutting the door before anyone had time to argue. "Who are you?" The doctor managed, as she took the last remaining seat. "What are you doing here?"
"This" said the priest, before she could answer, "is Lady Miranda from the Vasa Ascendancy, correct? I am no liar, Doctor Oman. Your aid has appeared." He seemed a bit smug to Miranda, who decided that she did not especially care for the man. "Truly?" The doctor spoke hesitantly. "You've brought soldiers to help us?"
"Ships," she said coolly, giving the preacher an annoyed look. "Wheat, saltmeats, wine, ale, papers. Sign the papers, and the rest is yours... on credit, at subsidized pricing, four percent interest on unpaid debt per annum, simply divisible. More ships will follow, over time, as needed."
"I don't need your supplies and ships," he countered. "I expect you've heard. And you can see there's grain enough outside, too. If you're not here to help us, then take your paper and-" "You do need the drink. And the meat," she cut in, before he could say anything terminally reckless. "As for your grain reserves, I judge that they'll last you a month on the outside, if you spread them thin enough. You won't, though. People tire very quickly of being hungry all the time, and having only a stale loaf to look forward to at the end of every fitful night, especially once they start suspecting you've baked sawdust into the bread. Don't bother to object. It doesn't have to be true for people to think it, as we both know. Give them meat and drink every now and then, and all of that will simply melt away. It will be better eating than many of them had even before Lord Faros laid siege to their city, enough of them to silence those so accustomed to greater luxury as to complain.
"You need our trade because the Vrykal Faros, of Solean, having claimed inheritance of Aryos's lands and title and surrounded your city, has sent out a decree prohibiting all trade here until 'the rule of law' is restored. Honest merchants fear to approach you, and the occasional bold smuggler will bleed you dry of any gold still at your disposal, but a butterfly had as well prohibit a thunderstorm as Count Faros make demands of my Emperor." She proffered him the documents. "It's a fair deal. Take it."
He stared at the scrolls for a minute, shuffling them around, reading much more slowly than Miranda suspected he was capable of reading, then set them down and looked at her with deliberation. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I can't take on the Vrykals of Galadon with a mob of unhappy farmers and tradesmen and half-trained watchmen of uncertain loyalty. If you're here to help us, then you have to send soldiers, else we yield or die. If you're here to profit, then you have to send soldiers... else we yield or die."
"You don't need to take on the Vrykals," she answered, "unless you intend to secure Allin's independence from the Crown. Else, your men only need to outlast those of Lord Faros, and claim lordship by right of conquest."
"And bow to Cryan? Blow that. And should we just leave Callonburgh to dry? Fifty years from now I'll be dead, more likely than not, and as soon as that happens another Vrykal steps in and we've gone nowhere. Fifty years of blood and hardship for what? How many more innocents are killed every month by the tin men over fifty years? No. I will have done with them, or not... and do it properly, either way."
Miranda looked thoughtful, and there was a silence. "It is the will of God," the priest ventured after a while. "The time has come for the demons to be destroyed, for good and all." Miranda ignored him.
"What you are presently involved in," she finally answered, "can be seen one of at least two separate ways. One is as armed conflict between the humans and the Vrykals of Galadon, and humans and Vrykals alike bestir themselves across the land and find that their gaze is drawn to their weapons more often than they can quite account for. The other is as a conflict of succession between two claimants to a petty lordship in Galadon, and no business of the Crown or the outside lords and subjects, and this is the view it pleases your God-King Cryan to adopt. If we send troops against the Crown, it will be an act of war. And wars are fought for conquest, not charity, so tell me... are you prepared to cede sovereignty to the Vasa Ascendancy, to join the Empire and accept the Emperor's peace, the Emperor's law, and the Emperor's rule?"
"Go from one king to another?" Said Oman. "A pointless exercise. No gods, no kings. Galadon is done with them."
She looked pointedly at the priest, who seemed unfazed. Oman flushed red, beneath his silly hat. "I had no choice," he muttered. "We needed their aid to keep going."
"You still need ours."
The rest was just haggling, and to tell the truth it was over in less than an hour. The gravity of an action is not always, as it happens, directly tied with the amount of time spent preparing it. When it was over she had Oman sign the fresh-drawn documents, and stood to go. "I will take this to his Majesty, then." She informed them. "I will endeavor to return within the day. He gaped. "Lady Miranda... wait. I knew that name was familiar. As in... Miranda Zasolez?"
"That is correct." He paled. "F-forgive me-" he stood, bowing slightly. "I did not know..." "There is nothing to forgive. I expect you have not come across many portraits of me in your studies, Doctor, but a professional matter should be dealt with professionally in any case." She turned.
"One thing, my lady..." said the priest.
As she reported to the Emperor, later that day, she presented him with the priest's gift as well as the documents. Galadon would retain sovereignty, but pay one-tenth of tax income to the Emperor as tribute in exchange for his protection. Galadon would maintain a standing army of not less than one in twenty able-bodied men, which would aid in the event of any attack upon the Vasa Ascendancy by a foreign power. The Emperor would recognize Ajax Oman as the rightful claimant to the throne of Galadon, and all Vrykal-held titles within, by virtue of inheritance, on the basis that the death of a claimant was determined by expiration of vital signs and that all descendants of former title-holders had therefore been dead for centuries. Miranda had brought back what records Oman had of his lineage to authenticate such a claim, without having taken care to clarify whether "authenticate" here meant "verify authenticity of" or "create authenticity for," but the legitimacy of the claim was of course a formality. Doctor Oman would claim these rights when an alliance was secured; others would not, not until it was too late. The early bird, as it were, was favored to win the throne. The Emperor would recognize King Ajax's authority to reform the administration of Galadon as he saw fit or necessary, provided certain, very broadly-outlined rights of his subjects were not consequently infringed upon, and with the understanding that no such reform was to invalidate any part of the Pact.
"Begging your pardon, Majesty, I inspected it myself first to ensure it was safe," she told him as he unwrapped the priest's cloth package. Something smooth, cold, and heavy fell into his hand, light flashing brightly from its neat curves and angles. A press. The knob on the top side fit neatly into his palm. The raised image on the bottom was Vasa's own seal, the falcon and shield. By the touch of the thing, he almost could have sworn Miranda had just come from someplace much colder than here... but she had not.
"It is brightsteel, or 'cold steel'." She clarified, probably needlessly. Brightsteel was a near-legendary creation of the Kingdom of God, and it was almost never shipped outside the island. Harder and stronger than common steel, brightsteel reportedly never needed polishing or sharpening, and shone like fresh silver. Curiously, it was always cold, no matter how great a flame one applied to it, and this had made reworking impossible. The Kingdom of God did occasionally sell (very expensive) little brightsteel hooks to foreign fishermen, if they were deemed to have acceptable character to deal with, but many a fortune had been spent and wasted on trying to gather enough of them to turn the metal into some kind of actual weapon, rather than simply a large collection of extremely heavy-duty fishooks. If this was truly solid brightsteel, the sheer amount of it represented a fortune outside the Kingdom of God.
"I asked if this came from the Lord Bishop," she said, hesitantly. "He said... no, your Majesty. He said it came from the Voice of God."
TAG: Tirin
"Many here seem unhappy with these proceedings." Miranda remarked, as baptizer and baptized left the square under guard and their escort motioned them along towards the grain depot. "Filthy foreign religion, stranger foreign god," he replied. "Don't hold with it myself."
"Worse than the gods of Galadon, then?" She asked, pointedly. He glared. "No gods, no kings" he snapped. "That's what we was all saying before, when we run the tin men outta town. The Doctor's words, them, and the man seemed to be talking sense so everyone else listened. Then this foreign bastard priest shows up, an' starts talking to the man like he's supposed to be our king, so half everyone else's doin' the same. Where I'm standing, looks like it took less than a week for us to get another king, and him another god." He stopped suddenly at the massive double-doors of the grain depot, where two apparently former watchmen stood guard with crossed spears. "Fuck's this?"
"The Doctor's praying," said the one on the right, evidently the senior of the two. "Got the priest with him. Not to be disturbed."
"Those are your orders, eh Potts?" The customs officer flushed red. "No orders, Bill," said the watchman calmly. "Just the same, no-one goes in."
"One God, no kings, eh?"
"That's enough." Miranda stepped forward, looking very much irritated and about as imposing as a little old woman ever could be. (Which, in many ways, for many men, is very much so.). "I have traveled here from the Vasa Ascendancy to deal with your leadership, and the behest of the Emperor himself. I am done with waiting. This petty game of diplomacy and deferral amused me for a time, so I indulged it. No longer. Five seconds from now, I will be walking through those doors. Yochanan, kill anyone outside who's still trying to stop me at that time."
There was a pause while this message sank in, a shorter pause where looks of horror appeared on the guards' faces as they realized that most of their seconds had already been consumed, and a frantic scramble to clear the woman's path of any obstacles, people and doors included. She strode through with perfect timing, unimpeded, with Yochanan in tow... but did not fail to note that the doors were most definitively shut behind them. Only natural. A nice, thick set of doors between anyone and Yochanan was generally viewed by them as approximating "a good start." Piles of grain obscured the view across the enormous room, muffling the sound of voices coming from the office on the far side. They became clearer as the visitors drew closer.
"-and you'd send your soldiers. Well, I stood your bloody ritual! I want the bloody army!"
"...said no such thing-"
"Don't fuck with me! 'Accept the light and your aid will appear'. I am an educated man, priest! I know how the words rearrange! You make good, or I'll take it all back tomorrow! I'll outlaw your damn religion, I swear it!"
"I am not a diplomat." This was the priest's voice, from the square - calm, but somehow sharp. "I say the words as the thing is. Eden will send you gold, aye, and ships too. But the Army of God will not fight in your rebellion. It is needed elsewhere."
"It is needed here. People don't like rations, priest. Merchants don't like waiting, and nobody likes sharing. Every day people look at the granary a little more hungrily - aye, and the gates too. I've got no trained officers. I've got no trained soldiers. Every day, I have fewer and fewer soldiers at all. Callonburgh has nothing but mercenaries to fight for them, and they'll stop as soon as they figure they've made as much as they're going to or the merchants get tired of paying them. Whichever comes first. We've got nearly no weapons. We absolutely don't have any machinery, and nobody with the skills and knowledge to make them. We need an army... or I open the gates. They've offered generous terms. The people, they'll mock me for a coward... but they'll live to mock me, at least. And I'll live to endure it."
Deciding that the time for entry was about optimal, Miranda knocked firmly and then swept inside the little room, lit by a single candle on a single desk, strewn with paperwork, at which the doctor and the priest sat arguing on opposing ends. The doctor, who had apparently put on his funny little suit and hat since she'd seen him last, looked startled at the intrusion and made to rise, a knife in hand. He froze and sat back down when he saw Yochanan, however, the appearance of which had a comically far opposite effect on the priest. "Stand out here, and do nothing else," she told the demon, shutting the door before anyone had time to argue. "Who are you?" The doctor managed, as she took the last remaining seat. "What are you doing here?"
"This" said the priest, before she could answer, "is Lady Miranda from the Vasa Ascendancy, correct? I am no liar, Doctor Oman. Your aid has appeared." He seemed a bit smug to Miranda, who decided that she did not especially care for the man. "Truly?" The doctor spoke hesitantly. "You've brought soldiers to help us?"
"Ships," she said coolly, giving the preacher an annoyed look. "Wheat, saltmeats, wine, ale, papers. Sign the papers, and the rest is yours... on credit, at subsidized pricing, four percent interest on unpaid debt per annum, simply divisible. More ships will follow, over time, as needed."
"I don't need your supplies and ships," he countered. "I expect you've heard. And you can see there's grain enough outside, too. If you're not here to help us, then take your paper and-" "You do need the drink. And the meat," she cut in, before he could say anything terminally reckless. "As for your grain reserves, I judge that they'll last you a month on the outside, if you spread them thin enough. You won't, though. People tire very quickly of being hungry all the time, and having only a stale loaf to look forward to at the end of every fitful night, especially once they start suspecting you've baked sawdust into the bread. Don't bother to object. It doesn't have to be true for people to think it, as we both know. Give them meat and drink every now and then, and all of that will simply melt away. It will be better eating than many of them had even before Lord Faros laid siege to their city, enough of them to silence those so accustomed to greater luxury as to complain.
"You need our trade because the Vrykal Faros, of Solean, having claimed inheritance of Aryos's lands and title and surrounded your city, has sent out a decree prohibiting all trade here until 'the rule of law' is restored. Honest merchants fear to approach you, and the occasional bold smuggler will bleed you dry of any gold still at your disposal, but a butterfly had as well prohibit a thunderstorm as Count Faros make demands of my Emperor." She proffered him the documents. "It's a fair deal. Take it."
He stared at the scrolls for a minute, shuffling them around, reading much more slowly than Miranda suspected he was capable of reading, then set them down and looked at her with deliberation. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I can't take on the Vrykals of Galadon with a mob of unhappy farmers and tradesmen and half-trained watchmen of uncertain loyalty. If you're here to help us, then you have to send soldiers, else we yield or die. If you're here to profit, then you have to send soldiers... else we yield or die."
"You don't need to take on the Vrykals," she answered, "unless you intend to secure Allin's independence from the Crown. Else, your men only need to outlast those of Lord Faros, and claim lordship by right of conquest."
"And bow to Cryan? Blow that. And should we just leave Callonburgh to dry? Fifty years from now I'll be dead, more likely than not, and as soon as that happens another Vrykal steps in and we've gone nowhere. Fifty years of blood and hardship for what? How many more innocents are killed every month by the tin men over fifty years? No. I will have done with them, or not... and do it properly, either way."
Miranda looked thoughtful, and there was a silence. "It is the will of God," the priest ventured after a while. "The time has come for the demons to be destroyed, for good and all." Miranda ignored him.
"What you are presently involved in," she finally answered, "can be seen one of at least two separate ways. One is as armed conflict between the humans and the Vrykals of Galadon, and humans and Vrykals alike bestir themselves across the land and find that their gaze is drawn to their weapons more often than they can quite account for. The other is as a conflict of succession between two claimants to a petty lordship in Galadon, and no business of the Crown or the outside lords and subjects, and this is the view it pleases your God-King Cryan to adopt. If we send troops against the Crown, it will be an act of war. And wars are fought for conquest, not charity, so tell me... are you prepared to cede sovereignty to the Vasa Ascendancy, to join the Empire and accept the Emperor's peace, the Emperor's law, and the Emperor's rule?"
"Go from one king to another?" Said Oman. "A pointless exercise. No gods, no kings. Galadon is done with them."
She looked pointedly at the priest, who seemed unfazed. Oman flushed red, beneath his silly hat. "I had no choice," he muttered. "We needed their aid to keep going."
"You still need ours."
The rest was just haggling, and to tell the truth it was over in less than an hour. The gravity of an action is not always, as it happens, directly tied with the amount of time spent preparing it. When it was over she had Oman sign the fresh-drawn documents, and stood to go. "I will take this to his Majesty, then." She informed them. "I will endeavor to return within the day. He gaped. "Lady Miranda... wait. I knew that name was familiar. As in... Miranda Zasolez?"
"That is correct." He paled. "F-forgive me-" he stood, bowing slightly. "I did not know..." "There is nothing to forgive. I expect you have not come across many portraits of me in your studies, Doctor, but a professional matter should be dealt with professionally in any case." She turned.
"One thing, my lady..." said the priest.
As she reported to the Emperor, later that day, she presented him with the priest's gift as well as the documents. Galadon would retain sovereignty, but pay one-tenth of tax income to the Emperor as tribute in exchange for his protection. Galadon would maintain a standing army of not less than one in twenty able-bodied men, which would aid in the event of any attack upon the Vasa Ascendancy by a foreign power. The Emperor would recognize Ajax Oman as the rightful claimant to the throne of Galadon, and all Vrykal-held titles within, by virtue of inheritance, on the basis that the death of a claimant was determined by expiration of vital signs and that all descendants of former title-holders had therefore been dead for centuries. Miranda had brought back what records Oman had of his lineage to authenticate such a claim, without having taken care to clarify whether "authenticate" here meant "verify authenticity of" or "create authenticity for," but the legitimacy of the claim was of course a formality. Doctor Oman would claim these rights when an alliance was secured; others would not, not until it was too late. The early bird, as it were, was favored to win the throne. The Emperor would recognize King Ajax's authority to reform the administration of Galadon as he saw fit or necessary, provided certain, very broadly-outlined rights of his subjects were not consequently infringed upon, and with the understanding that no such reform was to invalidate any part of the Pact.
"Begging your pardon, Majesty, I inspected it myself first to ensure it was safe," she told him as he unwrapped the priest's cloth package. Something smooth, cold, and heavy fell into his hand, light flashing brightly from its neat curves and angles. A press. The knob on the top side fit neatly into his palm. The raised image on the bottom was Vasa's own seal, the falcon and shield. By the touch of the thing, he almost could have sworn Miranda had just come from someplace much colder than here... but she had not.
"It is brightsteel, or 'cold steel'." She clarified, probably needlessly. Brightsteel was a near-legendary creation of the Kingdom of God, and it was almost never shipped outside the island. Harder and stronger than common steel, brightsteel reportedly never needed polishing or sharpening, and shone like fresh silver. Curiously, it was always cold, no matter how great a flame one applied to it, and this had made reworking impossible. The Kingdom of God did occasionally sell (very expensive) little brightsteel hooks to foreign fishermen, if they were deemed to have acceptable character to deal with, but many a fortune had been spent and wasted on trying to gather enough of them to turn the metal into some kind of actual weapon, rather than simply a large collection of extremely heavy-duty fishooks. If this was truly solid brightsteel, the sheer amount of it represented a fortune outside the Kingdom of God.
"I asked if this came from the Lord Bishop," she said, hesitantly. "He said... no, your Majesty. He said it came from the Voice of God."
TAG: Tirin
