Politics

Compared to the heat of the Badlands, it was relatively cool, but it was the all-powerful, vile humidity that made Salkir so unbearable. Even here, high up on the Ziggurat, there was barely any escape from the cloying heat.
She was beautiful, though, was Salkir. Ankh was not one given to sentimentality, and his sense of humour only appeared when he was being confronted by vicious, ravening ghouls; but even he could appreciate Salkir. The sun boiled down on a riotous profusion of mud-brick homes, all jammed together so as there were no streets whatsoever in the entire city, poked up from the homogeneous mass, sometimes by almost as much as a story. Greens and whites, blues and yellows and reds livened up the muddy terracotta of the bricks, as did a veritable sea of canopies, awnings, and stalls. Bright fruits were hawked by bright people to rivers of passersby; a thousand pickpockets gleaned Farhight's cheap money from careless pockets. The entire city positively teemed with life, thousands upon thousands of people from all nations. Beyond it, the river – the Sphinxwater - lay like a carelessly dropped thread, shining rich and green in its myriad twists, here in the late stage of its development. Beyond the river of the Sphinx's Gift, its fertile floodplains abounding with life all its own: fields upon fields of figs, chickpeas, and grain, all meant for Salkir. To the west, the Dragon's Teeth, the towering mountains that walled the Occidental Basin off from Farhight, stood snow-capped; to the east, the fertile fields petered out into the glimmering yellow wilderness of the south Farhighter desert, haunted by nomads and Blue Dragon rebels.
“Appreciating the view?” a deep rumble of a voice asked. Ankh steeled himself before looking around: Maathotep, the Farhighter monarch's advisor from the Sphinxes, was always unsettling. The stone sphinxes they sometimes found in the Badlands or in the desert always had a comforting, impossible artificiality about them: the human neck always fused onto the spine too cleanly, the wings never looked quite right. It managed to convince you that they weren't real. Maathotep was completely different: whenever his braided, perfumed beard shifted, one could see the fur running and thinning up his neck; his features had a faintly leonine cast to them, and the huge, broad white wings that he usually carried folded up had fur running up their spines, growing into feathers. How such an improbable creature had come about, Ankh didn't know and didn't care to speculate; they were almost certainly magical in origin. There was certainly no evolutionary advantage inherent in being a winged lion with an ape's head.
“The... er... the view is truly excellent from this height.” Ankh remarked. It wasn't a lie: the Ziggurat, whose myriad corridors served as accommodation for the Shahanshah's court. The sphinx nodded sedately; his long, perfumed Babylonian beard dipped with him.
“Nothing can compare with the view when one soars, I think. But I digress!” the sphinx rumbled, turning his sapphire gaze on Ankh again. “The Shahanshah is holding court. I believe a decision is to be made regarding the Blue Dragons. As official representative of the Duchy of Akar, you are expected to be present.”
“Ah... thank you. I will be there presently.”

* * *

“The monarchy,” the fat northerner roared, red-faced, spraying saliva over his audience, “must be preserved at all costs! We in the ancient nation of Ostmargue understand this above all else, as our enduring monarchy demonstrates! These communists must be repressed at all costs!”
Ankh sighed and propped his head against his hand. He had never heard of Ostmargue, nor had he any desire to; all he knew that it was somewhere to the north, that it was populated by creatures called Thurse – apparently, just bigger versions of normal people – and that they had sent this fat, pontificating ambassador to Farhight – with which, apparently, the Ostmargue people had a long and enduring relationship – to shout at everyone for the past half-hour about how monarchies were wonderful. As a Lanciar, Ankh had his own opinions on that, but if this man continued on much longer, he would never have a chance to air his opinions.
The court was taking place in a large, well-lit red-brick chamber, near the top of the Ziggurat, with a balcony running around it from about halfway up. All nearby nations – 'nearby'; Ankh hadn't heard of most of them – were represented on the balcony, including this Ostmargue, from whose section the fat man was shouting. Below, a host of courtiers and blow-ins clustered around the sphinx, Maathotep, and the palace guards, surrounding the Shahanshah himself.
The Shahanshah, a hugely-muscular, intelligent-looking man, seemed just as bored as everyone else was by the Ostmargue person's hyperbole. In fact, from the half-lidded eyes and propped-up head, Ankh strongly suspected he was dozing.
“...and with the recent death of the good Shahanshah's father,” the Ostmargue person continued, growing even redder and more salivary, “it is important that our friend the Shahanshah, Nes-Shapur III, realise some powerful and potent allies to help secure his throne from this dreaded scourge. We in Ostmargue believe we can supply such an ally, and as such, Ostmargue declares in favour of the Green Dragon faction!” The fat Thurse bowled backwards into his seat, mopping his forehead and looking pleased with himself. Finally, Ankh thought.
Maathotep trotted up from beside the Shahanshah's throne. “We thank the Osting - ” Ah, Ankh thought, that's what you call an Ostmargue person... “ - delegation for sharing their wisdom with us.” He reared up, regally. “The Shahanshah will hear the delegation from Markan!"
Another Thurse, this one a small, ratty creature almost as tiny as a normal human, stepped up. His delegation was small, from all the court gossip just like his nation.
“The people of Farhight have always been kind to the traders and merchants of Markan. We wish to preserve this fruitful relationship - Markan declares in favour of the Shahanshah!”
A courtier – Stafu, Ankh thought his name was - next to Ankh leaned over. “Markan used to be a Kamarean colony.” he whispered conspiratorially. “They still maintain strong ties. The Kamareans often fly a kite by getting the Markanians to announce something.”
“Thanks.” Ankh murmured, and returned to his perusal of the assorted nations. Ostmargue had been the first; the nations of Grailin, Kamar, the Eastern Duchy, Tyrenea, Akar, Lannding, and Camranova had yet to be heard, in addition to two conglomerates from the Urglenn Mountains – wherever they were – that nobody really seemed to know what to make of.
“The Shahanshah thanks the Markanian delegate, and will now hear the Camranovaean ambassador.” A tall man – a human, not a Thurse – stood up. Metal plate armour – the lorica segmentata, the Camranovaeans called their armour – shielded his body, but his greying head was uncovered.
“As all here know,” he began, “ever since Jinn II of Kamar led his armies east and founded New Kamar – Camranova – in what had been the untamed steppes of north-eastern Farhight, the Camranovaeans and the Empire of Salkir have been struggling for domination of Farhight. All know us to be bitter enemies. Yet we are honourable ones. While we will not attack Salkir in her time of weakness, neither will we lend her the strength of our sword-arms. Camranova abstains.”
Stafu whispered again. “That's unexpected. Camranova is very powerful – they could have dealt Salkir a killing blow with this rebellion. The Dead God now only knows how things will go.”
“The Shahanshah thanks the Camranovaean ambassador. We will now hear the emissary of Grailin.”
A hush settled over the hall, and every eye turned towards a small section of the balcony, where a few Thurse in grey uniforms and armour were surrounding a tall Thurse, wrapped in furs despite the heat. Slowly, the tall Thurse looked up, revealing a face of hard planes and icy eyes, old before its years, and stood.
“I am Sanric te Eleazar te Baldwin, Grand Marshal of the Grailinese Army, foremost military power... in the world, if I may be so modest.” He smiled condescendingly. No-one took offense – no-one dared to. “I am sure you have all heard of Grailin.” No, Ankh thought, feeling more ignorant by the minute.
“For those of you that haven't,” Sanric continued, “allow me to explain. Grailin is the future.” He paused to let that sink in. No-one stirred.
“We, in Grailin, have observed the state of this world. The once-mighty Kamarean Empire wastes its resources fighting southern barbarians - ” Ankh bristled “ - the equally fallen Farhight is torn by a pathetic rabble of rebels, and the lands of the Thurse are occupied by decrepit scholars, greedy merchants... and us.” Sanric smiled, predatorily. “We believe that the only way to keep this pathetic world from disintegrating into total war is to induce just such a war... one in which Grailin will be the victor. One in which the great cities – Orlan, Salkir, Orlanova, Caragean, all of them – will fly the wolf of Grailin. One in which unity, under the name of Grailin, prevails. It makes our Emperor's heart bleed to see nations still pretending to glory without Grailin. Grailin is, of course, ready to accept all submissions to our unstoppable power... but until that time, it is in our best interest to destabilise all established regimes. As such, Grailin declares in support of the Blue Dragon rebels!” he shouted.
The hall sat in stunned silence. The Grailinese orator sat back, a sharp smile playing about his lips. Then, into the silence, one of the human delegates jumped up and shouted:
“It is clear that, for the Eastern Duchy, the only logical choice is to side with our friends in Grailin and support the Blue Dragons!” The hall burst into a shocked murmur. Even the Shahanshah had been woken from his slumber: he watched the Grailinese ambassador, green in the face.
“Not one word that Sanric said was untrue.” Stafu said to Ankh. “Grailin is the next great empire. I suspect this will sway many of those undecided. As for the Eastern Duchy...”
Ankh knew the Eastern Duchy – well, as it happened. It was a neighbour to Akar, but its population was miniscule, its lands, right next to the Badlands, half-desertified, and its independence based on the fact that it had nothing worth stealing. He wasn't worried about the Easterners, but this Grailin lot would bear further watching.
“The Shahanshah will hear the Tyrenean ambassador.” Ankh leaned forward – Tyrenea was another neighbour of Akar's. The Tyrenean, a robed priest, was looking green in the face after Grailin's announcement.
“The Duchy of Tyrenea... aah... abstains.” He smiled weakly. Another human jumped to his feet, on the other side of the hall.
“The citizenry of Lannding will never condone the cowardice that the people of Camranova and Tyrenea have displayed! We must help our oppressed friends in the east, and declare for the Blue Dragons! Ye who have not declared, hear me and free the oppressed people of Farhight!”
“How dare you!” The Camranovaean delegate surged to his feet amid a chorus of roars, shouting the impertinent Lannding delegate down. “Had we the will to, we would march across the deserts and burn your pathetic country to the ground!”
“Silence!” Maathotep roared, a leonine sound that cut through the shouting. “The Shahanshah will hear the delegate of the Progressive faction now.” A tiny little man stood up, dressed in green tartans and a cloak cinched with an ornate golden brooch. No dwarf was he: he was an Erse, apparently a much smaller version of a human.
“For long years... ahem. Excuse me. In the Urglenns, we are not much used to public speaking. In the Urglenn Mountains, things don't change very fast. No.” The little Erse cleared his throat, growing redder with every minute. “In fact, it would be safe to say that tradition strangles every new idea born in my home. It is the goal of the Progressive faction to remove these stultifying traditions and thus free the Erse to claim their destiny. Considering...” The little man glanced nervously at the Shahanshah. “Considering... our rather similar goals and the fact that one of our number, Shamus of Borova, is so regarded among the Blue Dragons, the Progressive faction of the Urglenns... sides with the Blue Dragons.” The Erse sat down. On the other side of the hall, another Erse – this one with thick grey whiskers and moustache, and almost no head-hair – stood up.
“Given our intrinsic opposition, it can only be that the Traditionalist faction of the Urglenns, which I represent, supports the Green Dragons.” Maathotep nodded at the grey-haired, dignified little man. He sat down with nose in the air; the other Erse stared at him venomously.
“We thank the Traditionalist emissary for his support. The Shahanshah now calls on the Kamarean delegate to clarify his support.” The Kamarean delegate, across from Ankh, stood up. Pale and chubby, and dressed in a Kamarean suit and fedora which would have been stylish on anyone else, he cleared his throat nervously.
“L – ladies and gentlemen... my name is Isambard Hercules.” He looked around, and for a moment, his gaze and Ankh's crossed – and Ankh sat back in shock. In those eyes, he had glimpsed an intelligence so vast it beggared description. Despite his appearance, this man was clever enough to be Akar's worst enemy.
“It can be observed,” Isambard Hercules noted, “that a similar relationship exists between Kamar and Farhight as between Farhight and Camranova – that is, two great empires struggling for control of numerous provinces. We have fought long and hard against Farhight, but honourably too. But at least we are familiar with the Shahanshah's regime. These rebels, they are something new, something alien. And it may be that old enemies fight each other so long, they become allies unknowingly. Kamar declares in favour of the Farhighter monarchy.” The hall's murmuring started up again, and the Eastern and Lannding ambassadors looked distinctly uncomfortable. Ankh's eyes were on the Grailinese contingent – they looked delighted, for some reason.
“This is most unexpected.” Stafu whispered. “Kamar and Farhight are ancient enemies...” Ankh nodded. Stafu paused a minute. “I believe you're the only one left.” Ankh nodded again, considering.
“The Shahanshah would hear the Akarean delegate now.” Maathotep called. Ankh swallowed the lump in his throat, and – haltingly – he stood up. Every eye in the hall was on him; he could feel the Osting's eyes drilling him, imploring him to do the right thing; he could feel the Kamarean, Isambard Hercules, wondering about the ongoing war; he could see the Grailinese man's gaze weighing him and measuring him... and finding him lacking?
“I believe,” he began, then stopped. He cleared his throat, wondering what the people below were seeing – one of the legendary barbarian Lanciars, with their face-obscuring helmets and inhuman discipline, their famous prowess in battle, their lack of technology, the rumours of eugenics that floated about them. Akar's image was resting on him.
“I believe that the Kamarean ambassador's statements were, in essence, correct.” He swallowed – why was his throat so dry now, of all times? “Kamar and Farhight were and are ancient enemies, and traditionally, Akar has supported Farhight in these conflicts. Yet now, we find ourselves faced with a dilemma. Kamar and Farhight share a side. What, I ask you, am I to do?” He paused, this time for dramatic effect.
“Well, let it never be said that Akar is not forgiving. We will side with the Green Dragons, with the Kamareans, with whom we are currently at war. Akar will abandon her campaign against Kamar to pursue this common threat. As of this moment, Akar and Kamar are at peace.” The hall was silent. Ankh sat down. He could hear the murmurs: Akar and Kamar taking a side? Even the Grailinese wasn't looking as confident as he had. With the exception of Grailin's declaration, things had gone overwhelmingly in favour of the Green Dragons.
“The Shahanshah,” Maathotep bellowed, “thanks all his new allies. Ye of Grailin, Lannding, the Eastern Duchy, and the Progressive faction, leave here in shame. Farhight welcomes her new allies, Kamar, the Traditionalist faction, Ostmargue, Akar, and Markan to her bosom.” The hall erupted in applause, as the Grailinese and their new cronies swept out, spurned. Ankh released a sigh of relief: this rebellion should be over by winter.