Damycles
Phoe
Alby47
Fetzen
AnarionSince we're up to Bonds, I always find it hard to get a Feel for a character just from a sheet, without some interaction or story behind them.
So, I did a little bit of prosaic writing about Lucien to help get a better feel of him across.
THE ACT OF PARLIAMENT
So, I did a little bit of prosaic writing about Lucien to help get a better feel of him across.
THE ACT OF PARLIAMENT
Lucien had seen the writing on the palace wall in ten-foot high red letters. The best bit was it was written in a language nobody else understood.
This is because that big, obvious warning had been broken down into tiny, digestible reports that passed across his desk as Head of the Civil Service. Innocuous titles like; “Local Councillors Reports on the Impacts of New Tarifs on Salt Exports”, “Findings of Diplomatic Envoys to Neighbouring States”, both the Eastern and Western borders, and “Speculation on Grain Futures and Current Prices”.
In that last one, the footnotes glowed hot enough that Lucien’s fingers never held the page by the bottom, afraid they’d burn his fingertips off.
“Shit.”
“Sir?”
His eyes flicked up. “George. If you could have a holiday anywhere, where would you go?”
“Ah. I always wanted to see the Heart, Sir. Just for a little while. Everyone who’s made it back says it’s like nowhere else.”
“Everyone who’s made it back...” Lucien repeated, stroking his jaw. “George, could you do me a favour?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’m going to fire you now, and it would make things a lot easier if we pretend you did something awful. The worst thing you can imagine. So terrible we can’t talk about it.”
“Oh. I’m- Can I decline?”
Lucien’s eyes darted up off the report and locked with George’s. George nodded.
“Right. I’m terribly sorry for what I did, which was so disgraceful I won’t even specify.”
“I’ve written you a glowing recommendation, privately. But you’re so disgraced, George, that I think it’s best that you leave the country. The continent, if you can help it.”
George nodded, straightening his red waistcoat. “Has it got anything to do with what’s happening in the Garden?”
They looked out the window at the sprawling mob.
Today, titled landowners, clergy, the wealthier merchants and the newly booming industrialist class were forming an open court in the palace gardens to negotiate the balance between the new powers and the old. The King had shown up, but fallen asleep hours ago.
How was the King to know that this was the pebble that started the avalanche. By Lucien’s estimates, in six months, The Empire would cease to be.
Lucien pulled a letter from his jacket, and slid it across his desk. “Time to go, George.”
“Right. Thank you, sir.”
George took the letter, and tucked it inside his shirt. He took a lemon wedge from Lucien’s tea, squirted two quick drops into his eyes, then flung himself out of the office, making a good show of wiping away his tears. He had the presence of mind to lock the door behind him on the way out.
It was a tragedy to lose talent like that.
Lucien pulled the bottom drawer out of his filing cabinet, and opened the floor safe hidden underneath it. He took out a steel lockbox and flicked through the labels of the manilla folders inside.
[Archbishop of Evora]
[Archbishop of dos Ossos]
[Archbishop of Sedlec]
[Secretary of State]
[Secretary of the Treasury]
[Field Marshal von Mackensen]
[King (ours)]
Ah, yes. There’s the one he needed. He pocketed the blackmail materials, and skipped ahead to the handwriting samples. One for when he was sober, one for his usual self... He pulled the “bacchanalia” sample, and shook the forged signet ring from the bottom corner of the envelope, and began to write. He checked his calendar. Tomorrow would be perfect.
-----
Lucien stormed into the throne room, furious, letter held in white-knuckled fist. The second the door had been opened for him, he could see the king’s bloodshot eyes, like two red mushrooms in black soil.
“Rupert, what the fuck is this?”
The King sat a little straighter, fight or flight kicking in. Lucien was only on a first name basis with the King when something very bad had happened, or the King had been Quite Naughty Indeed. And, because last night had been the annual meeting of the Secret Fraternal Order of Bookbinders, Milliners and Vintners, the King had no way of knowing which it was, but he had some unpleasant guesses.
“A posting to the Heart? Are you mad?”
“Sir Roué, your voice, please...”
“I beg your pardon, your Majesty,” Lucien was close enough to the throne now to drop to his indoor voice, “But you’re sending me to the Heart? A foreign posting? Truly?”
The King furrowed his eyebrows, massaging his temples. “Who ordered this?”
“You did! This is your handwriting, isn’t it?”
Lucien pushed the letter towards the king. He read it with a pained wince, his lips moving as he read and reread it. “Hrrm.”
“Hrrm?”
“I made a good point. I think.” The king muttered. “Our last man couldn’t hack it. And embassies to the Heart don’t usually go well. I really do need my best man...”
“While I am very flattered, surely you need me here? The Empire will go to shambles without me.”
“You think too highly of yourself, Sir Roué,” the king reprimanded. “I see I suggested some very suitable replacements... for the time being. I know you’re not very fond of Marquis du Motier, but he would be quite capable.”
“Capable? Your Majesty, please, the man couldn’t lead a pig to a trough.”
“Lucien...” the King growled in a warning tone. Lucien stood up straighter.
“Fine. But if I’m going along with this, I’m going to need some damned good incentives. The best office you can give me. Some staff. Then there’s my salary!”
The King raised an eyebrow. “You demand it?”
“Or I’ll bloody retire in protest.”
The King’s fingers drummed against the arm of the throne like drumsticks. “It would help the Empire’s prestige, the office.”
“Yes. Everything I do, for the Empire, of course.”
“We’ll send the staff later.” The King’s blinks were getting longer and longer, “Let you set things up how you like it on your own.”
“Of course, your Majesty.” Lucien bowed once more. “How can I argue with such infinite wisdom?”
The King was snoring by the time the doors closed behind Lucien.
-----
Two months. The Empire lasted two months. Which was really bloody inconvenient, because he really needed that extra time to get himself set up. He’d barely had time to find a good tailor before his salary disappeared.
The staff never came. The Marquis had made a bigger hash of everything than Lucien could have anticipated - when the riots inevitably started, he’d ordered cannons to open fire on the crowds.
The King and his family tried to flee to Czcezik, whose monarchs were close cousins (so it goes). They didn’t make it across the border without being recognized by a farmer who knew the King’s face from the back of a coin...
So, the Czcezik royal family - now next in the line of succession, would you happen to believe? - marched on the Empire - and ran right into three different factional people’s armies who’d been preparing for civil war, now with a common enemy.
Who could have predicted those guerilla armies? Besides anyone who had carefully read the footnotes on a national report about the distribution of grain stockpiles, of course.
The New People’s Government was now pushing back into Czcezik, and anyone they could get their hands on who had a “Sir” in their name was having their head removed from their shoulders.
And Sir Lucien had a lovely new office, if he could keep it.
Every prime-numbered floorboard on the stairs was balsa over a beartrap. Most doorhandles had a heating element in them, the stucco walls hid a flotilla of pistols and the ceiling fans were heavy as anvils, and detachable.
And somehow, an owl still managed to flit over to his colonial-wood desk, intact. He regarded it with an affectionate smile, one hand on the grip of the pistol underneath his parabola-linen shirt.
“You know, a group of owls is known as a parliament? And I am a civil servant. I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”
Another owl flew in behind it. And another.
Lucien swore.
This is because that big, obvious warning had been broken down into tiny, digestible reports that passed across his desk as Head of the Civil Service. Innocuous titles like; “Local Councillors Reports on the Impacts of New Tarifs on Salt Exports”, “Findings of Diplomatic Envoys to Neighbouring States”, both the Eastern and Western borders, and “Speculation on Grain Futures and Current Prices”.
In that last one, the footnotes glowed hot enough that Lucien’s fingers never held the page by the bottom, afraid they’d burn his fingertips off.
“Shit.”
“Sir?”
His eyes flicked up. “George. If you could have a holiday anywhere, where would you go?”
“Ah. I always wanted to see the Heart, Sir. Just for a little while. Everyone who’s made it back says it’s like nowhere else.”
“Everyone who’s made it back...” Lucien repeated, stroking his jaw. “George, could you do me a favour?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’m going to fire you now, and it would make things a lot easier if we pretend you did something awful. The worst thing you can imagine. So terrible we can’t talk about it.”
“Oh. I’m- Can I decline?”
Lucien’s eyes darted up off the report and locked with George’s. George nodded.
“Right. I’m terribly sorry for what I did, which was so disgraceful I won’t even specify.”
“I’ve written you a glowing recommendation, privately. But you’re so disgraced, George, that I think it’s best that you leave the country. The continent, if you can help it.”
George nodded, straightening his red waistcoat. “Has it got anything to do with what’s happening in the Garden?”
They looked out the window at the sprawling mob.
Today, titled landowners, clergy, the wealthier merchants and the newly booming industrialist class were forming an open court in the palace gardens to negotiate the balance between the new powers and the old. The King had shown up, but fallen asleep hours ago.
How was the King to know that this was the pebble that started the avalanche. By Lucien’s estimates, in six months, The Empire would cease to be.
Lucien pulled a letter from his jacket, and slid it across his desk. “Time to go, George.”
“Right. Thank you, sir.”
George took the letter, and tucked it inside his shirt. He took a lemon wedge from Lucien’s tea, squirted two quick drops into his eyes, then flung himself out of the office, making a good show of wiping away his tears. He had the presence of mind to lock the door behind him on the way out.
It was a tragedy to lose talent like that.
Lucien pulled the bottom drawer out of his filing cabinet, and opened the floor safe hidden underneath it. He took out a steel lockbox and flicked through the labels of the manilla folders inside.
[Archbishop of Evora]
[Archbishop of dos Ossos]
[Archbishop of Sedlec]
[Secretary of State]
[Secretary of the Treasury]
[Field Marshal von Mackensen]
[King (ours)]
Ah, yes. There’s the one he needed. He pocketed the blackmail materials, and skipped ahead to the handwriting samples. One for when he was sober, one for his usual self... He pulled the “bacchanalia” sample, and shook the forged signet ring from the bottom corner of the envelope, and began to write. He checked his calendar. Tomorrow would be perfect.
-----
Lucien stormed into the throne room, furious, letter held in white-knuckled fist. The second the door had been opened for him, he could see the king’s bloodshot eyes, like two red mushrooms in black soil.
“Rupert, what the fuck is this?”
The King sat a little straighter, fight or flight kicking in. Lucien was only on a first name basis with the King when something very bad had happened, or the King had been Quite Naughty Indeed. And, because last night had been the annual meeting of the Secret Fraternal Order of Bookbinders, Milliners and Vintners, the King had no way of knowing which it was, but he had some unpleasant guesses.
“A posting to the Heart? Are you mad?”
“Sir Roué, your voice, please...”
“I beg your pardon, your Majesty,” Lucien was close enough to the throne now to drop to his indoor voice, “But you’re sending me to the Heart? A foreign posting? Truly?”
The King furrowed his eyebrows, massaging his temples. “Who ordered this?”
“You did! This is your handwriting, isn’t it?”
Lucien pushed the letter towards the king. He read it with a pained wince, his lips moving as he read and reread it. “Hrrm.”
“Hrrm?”
“I made a good point. I think.” The king muttered. “Our last man couldn’t hack it. And embassies to the Heart don’t usually go well. I really do need my best man...”
“While I am very flattered, surely you need me here? The Empire will go to shambles without me.”
“You think too highly of yourself, Sir Roué,” the king reprimanded. “I see I suggested some very suitable replacements... for the time being. I know you’re not very fond of Marquis du Motier, but he would be quite capable.”
“Capable? Your Majesty, please, the man couldn’t lead a pig to a trough.”
“Lucien...” the King growled in a warning tone. Lucien stood up straighter.
“Fine. But if I’m going along with this, I’m going to need some damned good incentives. The best office you can give me. Some staff. Then there’s my salary!”
The King raised an eyebrow. “You demand it?”
“Or I’ll bloody retire in protest.”
The King’s fingers drummed against the arm of the throne like drumsticks. “It would help the Empire’s prestige, the office.”
“Yes. Everything I do, for the Empire, of course.”
“We’ll send the staff later.” The King’s blinks were getting longer and longer, “Let you set things up how you like it on your own.”
“Of course, your Majesty.” Lucien bowed once more. “How can I argue with such infinite wisdom?”
The King was snoring by the time the doors closed behind Lucien.
-----
Two months. The Empire lasted two months. Which was really bloody inconvenient, because he really needed that extra time to get himself set up. He’d barely had time to find a good tailor before his salary disappeared.
The staff never came. The Marquis had made a bigger hash of everything than Lucien could have anticipated - when the riots inevitably started, he’d ordered cannons to open fire on the crowds.
The King and his family tried to flee to Czcezik, whose monarchs were close cousins (so it goes). They didn’t make it across the border without being recognized by a farmer who knew the King’s face from the back of a coin...
So, the Czcezik royal family - now next in the line of succession, would you happen to believe? - marched on the Empire - and ran right into three different factional people’s armies who’d been preparing for civil war, now with a common enemy.
Who could have predicted those guerilla armies? Besides anyone who had carefully read the footnotes on a national report about the distribution of grain stockpiles, of course.
The New People’s Government was now pushing back into Czcezik, and anyone they could get their hands on who had a “Sir” in their name was having their head removed from their shoulders.
And Sir Lucien had a lovely new office, if he could keep it.
Every prime-numbered floorboard on the stairs was balsa over a beartrap. Most doorhandles had a heating element in them, the stucco walls hid a flotilla of pistols and the ceiling fans were heavy as anvils, and detachable.
And somehow, an owl still managed to flit over to his colonial-wood desk, intact. He regarded it with an affectionate smile, one hand on the grip of the pistol underneath his parabola-linen shirt.
“You know, a group of owls is known as a parliament? And I am a civil servant. I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”
Another owl flew in behind it. And another.
Lucien swore.
