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Karl Müller-Hohenstein




"What a fucking circus." The thought had lingered at the forefront of his brain since the coffins first appeared at the doors to the Grand Cathedral. "The pageantry wasn't enough when they were alive, now this shit."

He shifted on his silk cushion until his neck clicked and he let out a soft sigh of relief; instantly ruined by a pain somewhere else. "When I die I hope they sling my body in the fucking river and get it over with."

Royal Archivist Karl Müller-Hohenstein, Archduke of the Stormlands, Duke of Steinland, and Lord-Admiral of the Starry Sea, had no illusions about his end. He was a cripple incapable of producing children. If one of his enemies didn't get him, he had no doubt Michaela was ruthless enough to remove him if she had too. Still, he hoped she would at least let him die in peace.

Here, in this building, a monolith to Gods he did not believe in, he was at least as safe as one could be. No shortage of hidden daggers awaited his command and his spies had told him of no ill intent on the part of the Noble houses, yet. Yes, his official roll as the Royal Archivist might have died with the King but until a new King, or Queen, was chosen, the agents he had spent so many years cultivating and training would still report to him.

He caught a man from one of the Northern houses glancing his way and flashed a smile of broken teeth. The man looked away quickly and Karl could not resist a mirthless chuckle "No one likes a monster.".

The Cathedral was emptying slowly, the heat and stink caused by so many bodies crammed into one space was finally easing and he was alone on his bench. Two soldiers stood by in Stormlands livery, their eyes never ceasing to rove the space around them.

"Bartholomew, help me up will you." Karl grunted at last to his man servant who had sat in front of him. The Lord of the Stormlands might not give a fig leaf for any sort of religion but his caretaker certainly did.

The man moved with a calm patience, offering an arm so that Karl could stand; sharp needles of pain beginning to shoot through his legs as the blood returned to him. His cane, a basic wooden affair that everyone assumed had a sword in it, was ready at hand.

"A sword!" He had always privately laughed at the idea. "What good would a sword do me? I suppose I could cut my own wrists in case of capture."

Click.

His left ankle clicked on every step, threatening to fold inward at any moment. It had happened more than once.

Tap.

The sound of his cane on the finely polished marble floor, now scuffed by a thousand boots.

Drag.

His right foot, more or less a clubfoot if he was honest, dragged slightly behind him as he walked.

The rhythm of his life accompanied him as he shuffled toward the Cathedral doors. He was well aware of the looks of pity from those who believed physical ability was all the mattered, and the sharper looks barely concealing wary watchfulness from those who knew just how dangerous the Cripple Lord really was; no secret was safe.

"I could use a drink," The thought was an idle one; his gums were hurting and running his tongue over them only irritated them more. "Maybe if I drink enough I'll bloody well drown myself."

At that moment he caught a flash of red-hair among the crowd of nobles and he felt his heart swell with pride. There was no doubt in the minds of those who knew Karl just how important his daughter was. Not only did she prove that he had once been a real man - capable of loving a woman and giving her a child - but she gave him a reason to fight his way out of bed every morning and see to his duties as a father and lord.

And fight he did. On more than one occasion he awoke to a bed stained with his own shit, unable to get to the privy in time. Everything hurt, he had no balls anymore, and every waking moment was a trial in patience and self-reflection.

Michaela gave him a reason to climb out of those soiled sheets. It would be easy to lie down and die and, as he watched her laugh at some joke, her white teeth flashing, he knew that he would do anything to see her happy. His own happiness was a forgone conclusion, it was dead and buried, but he could ensure a strong future for her.

He looked about the Cathedral, the young would be Princeling was nowhere to be seen but Anyarama of the Crownlands was still nearby. She caught his gaze and inclined her head slightly, how bowed in return, as much as one could while holding a cane. Though none would care to admit it, whichever claimant could woo the Stormlands to their side would certainly carry the throne.

He straightened up painfully; a crick had formed in his back and it protested as he began to walk again. He ignored it like so many of his other pains and shuffled onward, his black robe - trimmed with a grey/blue - slapping against his ankles as he went. Bartholomew and the guards fell in behind him he passed into the sun that streamed through the open doorway and into the fresh air beyond.



@ClocktowerEchoswhat’s the timeline on an IC?
Disregard accidental phone post, sorry.
@Jeddaven, all yours my friend. I'll be rocking Israel.
Still keen. I’ll check in on the OOC shortly.
Announcement: To quite a famous Dutchman “We out”.


Hong Kong, Dutch East Indies


Sunlight kissed the summit of Mount Austin, or The Peak as it was known locally, bathing the recently logged area where new homes were slated to be built in a gentle pink glow. Despite the onset of mid-winter, the temperature still hovered above 15 degrees centigrade and any white man who could be seen was clad in short sleeves.

One of those men, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his khaki shirt, was Governor Daniël Verlaan. Originally born in Rotterdam, he had been hand picked to oversee the Dutch arrival in Hong Kong and subsequently ensure the flow of goods back to Europe.

Signs of his success and continued work could be seen everywhere on the island as Steel glinted along the slopes of the mountain to show where a tram line was being pushed up the side to replace the ole donkey track that served the higher elevations of the island. Two other rail lines left Victoria Harbour, eventually wrapping around the island to connect on the far side, providing access to a series of fortifications, gun batteries, and various agricultural operations.

Victoria Harbour itself was alive with swarms of small Junks and other craft that raced back and forth between the long harbour quays and the fleet that had dropped anchor the night before. Four ships of the line, beautiful and sleek lined, towered above everything else but every eye was turned to the steamship in the midst of the fleet. The vessels were still rare in this part of the world, China having recently bought a single vessel of the original Dutch paddlewheel build some years before. This one was different, slightly larger, and driven by a steam powered screw instead of paddles on either side. Though few in Victoria Harbour understood it, they were looking at the first propeller-driven steam frigate in the world.

Some twenty Dutch flagged merchant ships had arrived with their escorts and now mixed with ships bearing flags of several other nations. The Dutch might dominate ocean going trade but it was not unheard of for private individuals from other countries to launch their own economic ventures. The Dutch did nothing to dissuade this practice, indeed most foreign trading vessels had a Dutch silent partner investing in their operation.

Verlaan was standing on a quay, sipping coffee, while four burly sailors provided him some privacy from the heaving mass of humanity. Unlike the British before him, he kept a low profile and his garrison even more so. Only a fool would miss the strength of the defences, but he wad determined no one would have an easy time gauging the strength of the garrison.

"Verlaan, morning."

There was an definitive American twang to the voice that address him and he nodded cordially at the gregarious Yank approaching him. James "Jimmy" Breslin represented American interests in the city and managed a thriving trade company that operated largely on mainland China.

"Jimmy," He jerked his head a t the nearby coffee pot, the closet he would get to offering a cup. "How're you this morning?"

"Mighty kind of you," The American said as he poured himself a mug. "I'm well thank you. Damn fine boat you've got out there." He gestured with his free hand toward the steam-frigate.

"Wish it were mine, but it won't be staying with the garrison." Verlaan grimaced as he tasted gritty coffee bean, spitting it into the water when he could. "How are you numbers this month?"

"Damn fine, thankee." Breslin said, offering a toast with his coffee. "With the asians trying to modernize there are plenty of opportunities to make some hefty dollars out here."

Breslin sipped the coffee, eyeing the huge Dutchman over the rim of the priceless blue china. The man was unusual, in fact most of the recent Dutch leadership in the last ten years was a far cry from what many Americans assumed Europeans were like. Everyone knew the King was technically in charge of the country, but the real power lay in the Elector Council, which in turn was made up of savvy businessmen and military leaders. The practice of promoting people based on their family connections had quietly gone the way of the British Empire, and instead jobs fell to those who had the merit to see them through.

"Yes, also a bit worrisome. There are a lot of people over there, and in Japan. If we give them modern weapons, we might be in for a world of hurt."

"That's why you sold them that paddle-steamer, right?" Breslin couldn't resist the jab.

The Dutchman shrugged. "It was old. It will suit them to flex some might on their neighbours but it is only one ship and we have to pay for the new navy somehow."

The American pondered on that for a moment. The Dutch ran the worlds Navy and maritime trade enterprise, dwarfing even that of the British before them. They had chosen to do it differently though and he admired their use of local partners rather than out right conquest. The return of many colonies to local populaces had actually served them well in securing trade routes and goods.

"Still, I would hate to seem start building their own."

Another shrug. "Easier said than done. The parts needed are hard to make, not impossible, but certainly very difficult."

The two men fell into a companionable silence as they continued to watch the lively activities before them. Breslin was grateful the Dutch had allowed him to purchase a small piece of the harbour front; Hong Kong was the only port not closed off to foreigners in China and that made it extremely valuable. His rent alone was staggering, as were the costs for shipping his goods on Dutch ships, but it meant they were protected and got to their destination.

Even the insurers these days were largely Dutch, the Amsterdam branch of Lloyds of London among the largest. The name was largely a throwback to better days but it was trusted everywhere and the Dutch had not bothered to change the name.

"Where are they bound next?" Breslin asked after some time, eyes still taking in the strange lines of the steam-frigate. The lack of a paddlewheel was odd.

"Amsterdam. The Japanese trade ships should be here in the next day or two. Transfer everything to the clippers and they will be on their way."

The clippers were things of beauty. Towering piles of sail that could outrun even a steamship on a good day, they were making the trip home in less than a month and fetching fantastic sums for luxury goods. Europe had not lost its taste for the finer things in life.

"I wonder if you might be able to find some cargo space for a few things of mine..." Breslin said, casting a sidelong glance at the Dutchman and saw his lips twitch in an approximation of a smile.

"Bound for where?"

"New York. Faster than trying to ship it to California and then overland."

"I might be able to find you some space. I have my personal allotment yet to be used up..." The Governor had a reserved five precent of cargo space on every ship for his own goods, it made the position very lucrative indeed.

"Forty precent share?" Breslin asked hopefully.

"Done." Verlaan replied. He could have haggled, but a time would come when he would need wealthy friends in America and Breslin was looking to be one of them. The two sealed their agreement with a clink of china and turned their gazes back to the harbour.



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