It was, all things considered, a good day. The sun beamed down from a cloudless sky onto the white marble buildings in the square, bathing all of them with a pleasant warmth that was desperately needed here.
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People lay on towels, limbs splayed out lazily, soaking up the rays while they could. City and regional officials talked in tired, breathless voices amongst themselves, reluctant to completely let go of all worries while Empyrea was still reeling from the players behind the curtain making their moves all at once.
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Today was a holiday, the Heliac Zenith or the midpoint of summer.
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Marshal Blücher, his wife, and the
Grand Vizier sat together on a bench enjoying the weather.
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"Silvery old Narcester, proud and arrogant; no wonder they moved the Crown here for protection." Blücher mused to himself.
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"Yes," murmured Rachel in reply, her face partly obscured by a light-grey, wide-brimmed hat. Rêverie-Montclair squirmed a little when a wry man with fake ivory glasses strutted past them, "I can't stand journalists; the sneaky rats close in so damn quickly if they get a whiff of anything private" She explained, shooting a scornful glare at the back of the man presently hounding a plump, sweaty man who fruitlessly tried to escape.
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"C'mon, friend! The rumour mill never stops, ya hear me? Yeah?"
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Blücher watched in disgust as the flamboyant, enthusiastic journalist clapped his unfortunate victim on the shoulder and resumed his onslaught, "Listen, buddy, I *know* you work for Banks!" He accused, his counterfeit smile swapped for a sadistic grin. The act was dropped, the gloves were off, and any pretence of civility had vanished.
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"My employer needs his dirty little secrets, and you're gonna give them up!" The journalist snapped viciously.
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Blücher exchanged a look with the Grand Vizier and whispered, "Only Larke would be so merciless."
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"I-I'm...just a clerk, I know nothing," he gasped, "let me be!"
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"Gimme something, fatty!"
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"Banks and Suncore frequent a club, s-sir. It's called the Risqué and it is a...hedonistic establishment."
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"You can go now." The journalist said as the snitch scurried away as fast as he could.
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The Grand Vizier looked disappointed, "Viziers Banks and Suncore must be in the crosshairs, I've a good mind to resign just to never see Mary Larke and her smirking face for the rest of my life."
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There was a faint clinking sound in the distance, which none of the three could hear.
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"Vizier Larke is a bloodhound, but Anuax is dead, so who holds her chain now?" Nina wondered aloud.
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The clinking grew louder until at last one of them turned around to see a large group of armoured men on horseback wielding cavalry rifles and lances.
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"Er...Mikal, did you invite the Lancers by any chance?" Rachel Rêverie-Montclair asked, adjusting her hat nervously.
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"Those aren't lancers." He said simply, reaching into his pocket to withdraw an Æther pistol.
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"Then what are the–" There was a short, bright flash of blue light and a hole appeared between her eyes. Blood trickled from the wound as she rolled in her skull and she slumped to the ground. Dead.
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The Marshal sprang to his feet with a roar, pelting the incoming threat with bursts of Ætherical energy.
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Click. Empty.
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Blücher, full of adrenaline, leapt in front of his wife. His arms stretched outwards as if accepting the Lance that pierced his heart.
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The Old Man was dead almost instantly.
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"Who sent you?!" His wife shrieked at the rider, tears streaming down her face.
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"That," came the reply, slightly muffled, "you already know."
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When the Grand Army unit stationed in Narcester (the 1,025th Company) arrived at the square, they found it full of corpses yet empty of riders. The only clue they had was the last words of Anastasia Carly van Blücher, repeated over and over again.
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"Xauna..." She said weakly to the private trying to stop the bleeding, "Get Erzherz...." she fell silent without finishing what she was trying to say.
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The private tried to ask her and then his superior when he realised she was dead. "Erzherzogin? Like Xuana Hessen-Rostova? Captain?" He said, confused and frightened at having a woman die in his arms.
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"This is no task for us, lad. Two big fish are dead so I've called for the Adjutant-General Corps to handle this mess."
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A dark-skinned woman with narrow eyes walked up to him. She wore a dark crimson uniform with brass highlights on it. She spoke with a harsh, growling voice. "The Adjutant-General won't be coming, Captain."
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"Why not? Who the 'ell are you anyhow?" He said carelessly.
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"Lieutenant General of the 4th Western Field Army and Massaena's Aide. I'll be acting Adjutant-General until further notice."
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"Yes, Ma'am." The Captain replied sheepishly, clearly embarrassed at mistaking such.
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"Who is that?" Asked the soldier innocently to his commander once they had moved out of earshot.
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"Ranquis Zhao, someone who only climbed so high up because Seebhom Massaena is fucking her." He grumbled unhappily, though he soon lit up when he spotted a group of Vivandières – female messengers with the additional role of supplying units with food – nearby.
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________________________________________
Conclave shattered (Vizier Fedor Corru) 90 EH
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Fedor Corru was Urlic's Vizier for Progress and therefore his chief advisor on all matters educational, scientific, cultural, and ideological.
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In more simple terms, Corru helped Urlic manage the research and teaching within the Archregion. He was the gatekeeper of information.
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But he was no liar. Corru, a lifelong optimist, tried to look on the bright side of everything. He was the moral counterweight on the Conclave, a beacon of light in a dark place.
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Ten others sat in the temporary headquarters of the Conclave of Viziers. On both of Fedor's sides sat friendly faces. Logico Lothete was Vizier for Logistics –representative of the Adjutant-General as well as her Vivandière and Quartermaster's Corps – while William Noro was Vizier for Technology. Both were thin, thoughtful men with a preference for solitude.
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Scattered around the round table was a handful of those neutral to Corru: Vizier for Diplomacy, Olaris De Rio; Vizier for Commons, David Cosminè Learner (who represented the interests of common folk); and Vizier for Administration, Marlo Narcester (who advised on issues regarding the civil service.).
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Olaris was charismatic, David was down to earth, and Marlo was excellent at organising things. All three generally meant well.
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Vizier Corru, if he was honest with himself, had no idea what to think of Temple Banks, Vanto Suncore, and Lord Bruno Niobite-Tantalite. Banks – Vizier for Commerce – was greedy but not ruthless, Suncore – Vizier for Industry – was ruthless but not greedy, and Niobite-Tantalite – Vizier for Aristocracy – was arrogant, elitist, and yet neither materialistic nor brutal. Fedor trusted the latter the least.
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The final two were actively hostile for vastly different reasons. The Vizier for
War, or what was left of him, was a former Lord Sergeant-Major who had retained all of his intimidating presence in retirement. He had a sort of uneasy calm to him as if nothing in Empyrea could frighten Lorzo De Petrov anymore.
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That left the Vizier for Media, the worst of all. Mary Larke was a name synonymous with blackmail, leaked secrets and lies. Without a master, she became dangerously unpredictable.
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"Welcome friends, today we must resolve an internal conflict between ourselves." Learner announced, flexing his temporary leadership of the Conclave. Everyone knew why David Cosminè Learner had been chosen: he had no ambitions of his own.
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"What is it now?" Complained Vizier Narcester – whose family had been named after the city and not the other way around.
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"This!" Barked Suncore as Banks furiously slammed a newspaper down on the table.
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The publisher was, unsurprisingly, the Northeastern Broadcasting Corporation, which Larke conveniently happened to be Director-General of.
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The ultra-inflammatory headline proudly exclaimed: "Risqué Club faces scandal after Viziers found in member list!"
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"Ignoring that there are deviants in the Conclave," Bruno chimed in, smirking while pointing at the accused, "Urlic, who has been far too soft on the media right from the start of his reign, has seen the daggers in the dark for decades now! That useless, lazy dolt is merely a disgrace to his family name but also a dire threat to everyone around him, including us!" He cried in outrage, his face turning pink despite the blue, ego-feeding, Niobite-Tantalite blood that ran through his arrogant veins.
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Larke remained unaffected, showing very little emotion amidst the heated debate unfolding around her.
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"I believe," Muttered Olaris– his voice just barely audible to Vizier Corru – to his trusty confidante, the ever-attentive Vizier for Administration, "that my approach is better in this situation."
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Marlo frowned and leaned in to whisper, "Are you going to tell me what it is – or did you just want to gloat?"
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"Simple, we employ the diplomat's favourite tactic," De Rio sniggered a little at the irritation displayed at this non-answer before sardonically elaborating with, "Do nothing at all."
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Marlo Narcester sighed in but nodded in agreement after some thought.
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"Vizier Larke, do you have anything to say in your defence?" David Cosminè Learner asked, the simple question slicing through the noise in the room with ease. The irate comments withered and died away as everyone waited in dusty silence for a reply.
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She got up and smoothing made her way to the doorway.
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"Well, I do have two small things to tell Fedor Corru, Marlo Narcester, Olaris De Rio, Vanto Suncore, and William Noro..."
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"Firstly, there are rumours that someone may have tampered with your seats." She said flatly, rolling her eyes at the panic when they found semicircular metal discs under their chairs.
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"And secondly, I and those discs have something in common: you'll find us both an explosion of joy!" She giggled madly at the abject horror on their faces as she pressed a button on her ring.
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For the unfortunate quintet, Empyrea dissolved into a blast of phosphorescent light, searing heat, and thunderous sound.
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The remaining five –Bruno Niobite-Tantalite, David Cosminè Learner, Logico Lothete, Lorzo De Petrov, and Temple Banks – were stunned into silence, their collective gaze locked onto the charred remains.
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Larke had won the trust of the people holding both metaphorical and literal daggers, who lurked patiently for their chance to use them.
They would get their chance soon enough.
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