The Circus of Nikirala

[VIROS 2915]

The Circus of Nikirala

 

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Spoiler

 

 

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The streets of Providence were nearly flooded, choked by a syrupy and insistent pour of rain which seemed to come more from the overflowing gutters than the clouds themselves. The water was thick with the detritus of such a large metropolis: manure, soot, bits of paper, and fallen leaves. Normally at this time of year, the ‘Jewel of Man’ would glitter in the summer sun, all marble edifices and sumptuous, wide-open boulevards. Before anything else, Providence was built to say “God, here we are. We are still striving for You.”

 

In this unseasonable weather, however, the message fell flat—to Josephine, at least. But perhaps it was only her foul mood playing tricks on her. She ought to be more patriotic, given the circumstances.

 

Pulling her cloak tighter against the cold, the Archchancellor stood in the courtyard of the military’s Bastion, reviewing the retinue before her: Anna Mariya, her Foreign Minister, half-burnt and mourning the loss of her daughter; Eliza Brae-Wittenbach, her ex-Foreign Minister, an Adunian magician newly invigorated by a religious rebirth; Joseph d’Azor, the ambassador to Haense, and perhaps the most ‘normal’ man present; finally, Erik Othaman, the Captain of the 4th Brigade, a veteran of so many battles that his body was just as much metal as it was flesh.

 

Across the courtyard, the rest of the 4th Brigade stood at parade rest, prepared to escort the embassy at their captain’s command. Some hours earlier they had stood in that same spot, bidding farewell as the rest of the army traveled to Southbridge to combat the voidal horror. Idly, Josephine wondered whether the men of her escort resented that they could not join their brethren in battle. If they mind, they do not show it. I envy their resolve, she thought.

 

Anna addressed the Archchancellor, breaking her reverie “Your Imperial Excellency, should we be departing?” 

 

“Yes.” Josephine paused, clearing her throat. She addressed them “Let me review our mission. The essential issue is that the King of Haense has entered our sovereign territory at the head of a party of armed men, and threatened one of our subjects. He may try to deflect by repeating a regrettable insult that the Duke of Cathalon paid him or by saying he meant to 'save' Lady Henrietta; this is not relevant for our purposes, and he has already meted out his own justice in both cases. The important part is that we must make clear that this sort of ‘visit’ cannot happen again.”

 

In the distance, one of the soldiers shivered in the rain, breaking the otherwise neat file with a slight shift in posture. Apologetically, Josephine addressed the retinue again “We will finish the briefing on the way.”

 

The four of them, three women and a man, climbed into the ambassadors’ carriage. Outside they heard the masculine huffs and grunts of the brigade as they set to the task of hitching the horses and opening the gate, directed by their captain. The embassy stared at each other silently in the darkness of the carriage. Between them, a cast iron lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling; Eliza leaned forward, lighting it with an incantation and a snap of her fingers.

 

They traveled then, through Upper Petra and the Grenz, with the bad weather following them past the Haeseni border. In large part, their time was spent debating strategy: “What ought we to say if the King. . .” and “Do we want to issue an ultimatum, or start a dialog?” and “Should we call for a larger guard, a show of force? Or perhaps even leave those we have with us at the front gates?” Occasionally, the cart stopped, and the ministers’ careful planning was interrupted first by the soldiers outside muttering curses at the mud, and second by a sudden lurch forward.

 

They disembarked at Karosgrad, its great red walls stretching up into an overcast sky. Some part of Josephine had hoped that the rain would disperse by the time of their arrival, but it had not. They were greeted by the Lord Palatine, Kaustantin Baruch, and his retinue; for a brief moment, the two parties joined into a single large one, as they rushed into the warmth of Nikirala Palace.

 

The solidarity was short-lived, and it became immediately apparent that the embassy’s painstaked planning—the treaty citations, the tailored phrases, the carefully debated options for concession—were all for naught. 

 

The throne room—why does he receive us in the throne room, as if we were petitioners?—was packed to the brim with the Haeseni court, peering over bannisters and muttering amongst themselves. The Archchancellor’s eyes darted around the room, taking stock of who was present. It seemed the entire Haeseni government, but more strangely, the Prince of Savoy and his heir. Josephine gestured forth Eliza, her friend and counselor, and whispered “What is the meaning of this? Surely the King does not mean to discuss this matter in front of his court, in front of a foreign sovereign. . .”

 

“He only means to receive us here, then dismiss the court. It is a Haeseni custom,” Eliza replied.

 

To the Archchancellor’s side, someone unseen in the crowd whispered “The BSK have their hands on the hilt of the swords, by the way.” The man was hurriedly corrected by another spectator “He is lying.”

 

Already, she felt as if the walls were closing in. Some trap was being sprung that she had not foreseen; but what was the trap? It could not be violence, not from the Haeseni. Something rhetorical, but what, then?

 

The King of Haense finally arrived, taking the dais. “My lords, my ladies, my dear Canonist brethren from the south—be welcome!” His eyes lingered on Anna Mariya and his words caught in his mouth. He caught himself, addressing them “Please, come forward. I imagine I speak for all the Kongzem when I say I am most intrigued as to what brings vy.”

 

There is the trap, then, Josephine mused. He does mean to address us in front of the court after all. He means to make a show of us—the Koeng wishes to display some exotic animals from the south to his subjects and his new Savoyard friends; it is an attempt to humiliate us. But if we leave now, before speaking our piece. . .

 

The Archchancellor bowed to him—a stiff, masculine quarter-turn, as she considered appropriate for a foreign second-in-command speaking to a sovereign in his court. “Your Majesty, we thank you for meeting with us. We do appreciate the opportunity to witness you hold court, as well. Are we correct that there will be an opportunity for us to speak privately after its completion?” 

 

It was a fruitless effort. Sigismund III denied them, and the ‘dialog’ proceeded, then, as a circus with a king as its ringleader. He began to tell a fairy tale about a fair lady of Cathalon, rescued from her wicked father; he danced and sang, set the minstrels to playing, and the whine of bagpipes drowned out the words of both the Archchancellor and Anna Mariya, his own royal mother.

 

The embassy muttered among itself, confused, and looking to Josephine for instruction. She could give them none; it was all she had not to shake visibly with anger, both at Sigismund III for doing this, and at herself for not anticipating it. She stood there, silently observing the king’s show. What have we done to these people, to deserve such vitriol? What do they want from us?

 

Over the din of music and derisive whispering, Josephine made a final attempt to make her country's point clear. “Your Majesty, by what right do you enter our sovereign territory at the head of an armed posse? You have broken the word you gave us, your own signature promising non-aggression.” But the Archchancellor's words did not fit the cadence of the song the king now sang, and they went unacknowledged.

 

Now Eliza spoke, making a half-hearted attempt to speak to the king on his own terms, to tell her own version of the fairy tale. The Archchancellor stopped her. It was too late for that. “Your Majesty, we have made the points we are willing to make in a public setting. If you wish to speak with our delegation in private, we are happy to do so, and would be honored.” 

 

The words stung in her mouth. Why do I offer this man courtesy? I would not be honored to speak with him; I would be more honored to never see him again, to have never come to this place. He mocks me in this way, my friends and my countrymen in this way. And it is all possible because he is here, in his own court, surrounded by his own guards and his own sycophants. She bit back foul insults.

 

Ah, the woman had a brief flash of calm as she realized. I was wrong. I have not yet sprung the trap. Nor will I. Still, it was not enough to justify staying.

 

Tense and angry, Josephine turned on her foot and the embassy began to depart.

 

But for just one moment, she feared she had been wrong again: the guard slammed the palace gates shut in front of them, and the Archchancellor’s vision filled with images of ancient massacres conducted in a similar manner. She had not thought her hosts capable of such evil, but then, neither had the victims of yore, lest they would not have gone to their doom either. She steeled herself, and Captain Othaman put his hand upon his sword.

 

But the guard was only another jester in a court full of them, and Josephine had fallen for yet another cruel joke. King Sigismund III spoke some final words, and the show was over. The gate opened, and the Archchancellor’s embassy left.

 

As they exited the Haeseni palace and began the journey to Providence, it occurred to Josephine that the rain had finally ended.

 

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[Minuvas 3193]

The Vice-Chancellor would report to Josephines office, followed by a small retinue carrying charts, graphs, maps and data. He would enter her office, and dismiss the group and close the doors behind him to an imposing and screeching shutter. Behind the towering doors of the Archchancellors Augustine doors, courtiers and palace attendants attempted to listen in on the conversation that went well into night, with Minuvas' voice penetrating through the fanciful palace doors at times. 

 

"....Decisions...your Imperial Excellency...."

 

The two would talk for hours, and again

 

 "Elf mix in their lineage?"

 

"Here....or here...perhaps this. Unknown.."

 

summoning and dismissing advisors throughout.  Eventually their discussion would conclude, the Vice would emerge from her office, offering no tell to the Palace couriers as they stared at the departing Elf.

 

 

 

[Herod 1417]

"When vy come in pursuit of a righteous cause that corrected a sinful wrong, do niet be surprised when it turns into a play or a show by the enjoyers of history." Murmured the Lord Palatine as he laid his bagpipes onto a bench in the King's office, a smug smirk still hanged on his face.

[AndrewTech 3329]

As the diplomatic mission to the north traveled southward on its return journey, Elizabeth Brae-Wittenbach would mull the happenings of the day over in her mind.

The sorceress had not expected to be greeted in this manner upon their arrival in Karosgrad. It was a very uncharacteristic action for the Haeseni to undertake. Particularly by Sigismund, whom she had believed to be a man of honor.

Did the Haeseni blame them for what had transpired between Henrietta and her father? If so, she could only wonder what they thought of King Henrik's brutal mistreatment of his own sister not a decade and a half before. The King's own aunt. Not to mention other family members of his whom had suffered similar fates before his assent to the throne. They had been beaten, abused, and had clearly suffered through far worse than Henrietta.

 

Privately, Eliza was glad that Henrietta had found happiness, and wished that she and Marus would lead a happy life together. The girl was like her own daughter, and she wished her all the best. Alas, this was opportunism at its finest. Tales of chivalry meant naught in the real world, something she hoped that the young King would come to see given the acclimation of experience.

 

All this she kept to herself, however.

As they crossed into the lands of the Grenzi, she recalled something that her mother, a Haeseni hauchkossar, had once told her many years before:

"The annals of history must be told and heard by all sides involved, lest revisionists seek to rewrite them."

[kuerbis 3802]

"Pa, is Etta now with the clowns?" asked Laurentina innocently - wholeheartedly believing her older sister had run off with an acrobat or a court jester. As Laura was shielded by her childlike innocence, Anne Caroline began making preparations to join the army once more.

 

[BenevolentManacles 2232]

Philip II would be found by his daughter, with a magnifying glass and tweezers, preening and cleaning the feathers of his now dead falcon, the taxidermized corpse an uncharacteristically macabre monument in his room of trophies.

 

He listened with care as he continued his hobby, the story causing a gentle grin on the wrinkled sovereign’s face. 
 

“The young Princes, Our counterparts. Dignity and mockery are the same to them. We shall love them all the same, and it is Our command that so shall you.”

 

The Emperor sets his tools down, crossing his arms at the Archchancellor’s grimace at his command.

 

“They scratch at the base of a marble pillar. The mocked and the jester are not evil, and can be saved. The King of Haense desired to do good, and he did it rashly, and with disregard for Our true and honest love for the good work of God.”

“They will learn, with age, that no country can exist by antithesis to another. It must be founded on its own principles.”

 

The Emperor beckons her, and they retreat to the chapel, where he compels her to pray for the dignity of the Haeseni King.

 

 

 

[Franczhiz 4437]

Holy Sir Philip would read the missive while playing with his son Lucius and daughter Genevieve. "May GOD grant His Imperial Majesty Emperor Philip II and His Majesty King Sigismund III the chance to resolve this." He gestured to the part where it said 'Anna Mariya' "Your grandmother has been mentioned, Genevieve and Lucius. Let us go to visit her so you can cheer her up.."

 

@annanicole__@Ramon

 

 

 

 

[TryaxReck 377]

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[Parce Domine 113]

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[ErikAzog 3575]

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[zuziee 4004]

Daphne Helvets watched her sister ask a question to her father, a confused look painted across her face. Who was Etta? Why were there clowns? 

10 minutes ago, Fie said:

 

"Pa, is Etta now with the clowns?"

 

 

[Taketheshot 3834]

Joseph d'Azor couldn't help but stifle a laugh as he left the throne room with the Orenian contingent. "So they jest and make songs..." he quipped to Sir Erik @grnappa 

The lord shook his head as he lofted his head to look behind him. "Let them have their games, and we shall, in time, have ours."

[amyselia 2962]

Claude's tongue felt embittered as she watched the reception of the Archchancellor's return from the window of her palace apartments, curious as to what transpired yet too hollow of heart to enquire further. 

 

Her thoughts were equally disturbed. 

Her family, of blood and bone, swirled in her mind as a tempest.

The sway of the Savoyard smirk was far too great a temptation for the Haeseni, bringing them to treat barbarically a woman of fine blood who only wished them goodwill, just as they had Claude's own sister - their own child. Was Josephine's a plight fought in vain, stomped on by the masquerade of men at play with chants of brotherhood and amity? 

The Madame could only answer with a sigh, falling into slumber to later be awakened in a tremor of sweat.

[Borin 7645]

"They come to us, for diplomacy, wielding the King's own estranged mother? A disgusting tactic, shameful, and they accuse us of disrespect?" Viktor Barclay sighs, shaking his head, momentarily frowning before his face returns to a jovial grin, fondly remembering the troupe of Orenians who came to entertain them

[ReveredOwl 5639]

"Why do they deem it acceptable to march into the palace with an armed host to issue demands or what have you, but it is somehow wrong for the King to send his soldiers to guard a member of his family venturing into the craven lands of Oren?" asked Walton.