(“I can write my own communiques,” she had commented to her father over dinner. She only let her brow furrow in private.
“A piece of bait doesn’t unlatch her own cage,” he remarked.
“I think of it more as... planting a garden,” Enger said. “Perhaps the queen has decided the north could use more bistort.”
In reply, he only smiled at her and pointed out that she had eaten her whole meal in under three minutes with only her fork; all while her dominant hand wrapped so tightly around her knife the blunt edge of the utensil left a crease in her palm. The message was clear: Enger wasn’t willowy bistort, she was a stinging nettle or a barberry shrub.)
It takes little time to get her trunk packed and her papers in order, although Enger turns down the offer of a palanquin to the coast in favour of a horse and a discreet guard wearing the porter’s unassuming costume. No one expects her to travel unescorted, of course; even if Iskander wasn’t pushing further south with impunity and greed, a commodity needs must accept its cage. Tsera is assigned in lieu of a contingent of guards; standing a head shorter than the princess, only a very keen eye could spot the knives and poison-tinged blow darts strapped to her person.
The trip across the ocean is dull, except when it isn’t. As autumn tips into the beginning of winter, Enger wraps herself in borrowed furs and watches the whales on the horizon. Tsera hovers, mulish about the mouth, at her elbow without respite. They only encounter one storm, the lightning spectacular against the furious, violet sky.
The ocean becomes land. Land becomes a port. The port becomes a smattering of villages and then a city. The breadbasket, they call it. Noise filters in like the angry, orchestrated cry of a barrel of gulls; the sentences of Ornefluer’s people have no spaces between words for Enger to get a foothold. Her lessons in the language had not accounted for the volley of accents across the region. When she can get away with it, she smiles wordlessly and defers the conversation. She’s always been told she has a lovely smile. Half the time, it works.
In the governor’s manse, she’s given the largest guest suite—a parlour with a side alcove as an office space, a bedchamber boasting magnificent double doors, an ensuite bath. (Tsera disappears sullenly down the hall into a smaller room. Enger lets her go, keeping a knife under her pillow as she has for the past five years.)
For a few weeks, Enger gets her bearings. She adjusts her body to the new demands of the sun’s rise and set. She borrows books from the libraries to practice her reading and writing. She entertains, often at the drop of a hat; the governor’s spouse and children, lords and ladies with financial considerations in the breadbasket; one surprisingly long conversation with a retired general fascinated by Iskander’s policy of mandatory military service (“but you’re a princess!” he had blustered, mustache quivering with such force she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing); and whoever else wishes to speak with her.
After the past few years, Enger finds herself grateful for the quiet grace of tedium—even if she continues to freeze at every popped cork and every chair leg screeching across the floor.
She’s frequently awake before the sun and around the same time as the house staff, nursing tea as they bustle for breakfast. One day, the bustle outs with more chaos than usual, bodies hurrying up and down. When the governor rushes out of their rooms without even stopping to say hello, Enger watches with bewilderment and gently gets a maid’s attention. ]
Has something happened?
[ The maid pauses, clutching a small basket of eggs. ]
The king has been spotted in— [ Exactly where the king was supposedly spotted is a word Enger doesn’t recognise, but she nods like she understands.
Just in case, she goes back to her suite and pulls one of her finest dresses out from the bottom of her trunk.
It is, of course, terribly wrinkled. Jane Austen's byronic hero, Mrs Bennet, would be ashamed. ]
this is unplanned. the king never cares to travel far from the capital, especially for any extended time. his aversion deepens now that it's the nadir of winter and the king is away when the snowbanks pile high on the streets of acacia and thick sheets of ice obstruct the ports. but this is unplanned. a stark change in his routine which many claim one can set a clock to. he was not due to travel this far west until after the new year when the buds on the trees begin to bloom and the farmers are in their fields.
but this is unplanned.
they reach the local capital of panier lourd just as the yellow warblers in the trees begin to sing of their sweetness. he recalls when the city was little more than a few rickety huts perched on the shoals whose residents subsisted largely on jackknife clams. he recalls when it was a fishing town with a couple of wooden boats. now the large stone buildings obscure the sunrise as the king exits the royal carriage, onto the cobblestones, and into his carriage. his arrival does not have any of its typical fanfare but it was unplanned. it's best that his presence here is discreet for this visit is not for pleasure.
it's this discretion that dictated the size and composition of his party. it is small — the captain of his guard, his valet, the minister of the interior, and the minister of intelligence. as this visit was unplanned, few others were available to make the two-thousand-mile trip on short notice.
the king's carriage travels up the gravel path and around the grand fountain before stopping in front of the mansion. governor benjamin thorhauge stands with his wife and their five children, each one sleepy-eyed and pink-cheeked in their silk dresses and suits. his servants are lined behind him like a row of soldiers. without waiting for the coachman, constantin lets himself out of the carriage. the morning sun behind him blazes his hair a copper orange as he steps down.
the king is warm in both expression and words as he greets the governor and his wife. they will need friends in the coming day so he cannot be curt and direct just yet. )
[ The chaos bustles around her like a gaggle of haka dancers trying to hit their mark; Enger remains head and shoulders above it all, her pace unhurried and fluid. It only takes a few minutes to steam the worst of the wrinkles out of her dress, and her curls are plaited and pinned out of her face in a matter of seconds.
In truth, the less forgiving northerly climes are a touch colder than Enger is used to. Of all the preparation she had been sent with—language lessons, exacting explanations of the differences in social decorum, the carefully selected gifts for every titled peer she could expect to meet—the one thing her Majesty had let slip was making sure Enger’s clothing was warm and inoffensive. Bare shoulders aren’t done here, oh no, the kind Mistress Thorhauge had informed her, discreet and warm; no bare shoulders and certainly no bare ankles. Silk slippers and jade bangles were set aside in favour of a sturdier pair of boots, although the latter was hardly unfamiliar from her months in the mud-trenched borders back home. There was little to be done for Iskandran fashion other than to offer Enger a selection of coats and hope that people look at foreigner unconvention with indulgence, not derision.
She packed poorly. So what? Doubtless her eleganzia with the Iskandran stripes would have been worse received. No one needs to look at her and think of wars halfway across the world.
When she steps out the front doors, it’s in a borrowed coat of dark, muted purple over a paler dress of grey. The colour profile is neither flattering nor diminishing, although she feels stark and alien as the morning cold hits her all over again.
Tsera is sullen at her back, as always. As they hang back, Enger resists glancing back at her to see what she makes of the king’s robust entourage. Unfashionable is one thing; indiscreet and provincial is something else entirely. Over and over, she rehearses the Ornefluer pronunciation of your Majesty in her head.
Out of the corner of her eye, Enger is aware of the youngest son eschewing decorum to wave at her. Her dimpled smile is directed to the side as she waits for an appropriate pause in the conversation, or to be brought within it. ]
the captain of the king's guard and the intelligence minister stand a few feet from them, far enough away for privacy but close enough in case anything untoward should occur. the king's eyes shift and catch the figures of two unknown people standing just out of his direct line of vision. in a louder voice, he says, ) It must have been longer than I remembered since my last visit. Your household has grown substantially since then.
(monsieur de philippe, his intelligence minister, steps forward and whispers their true identities to the king. constantin's eyebrow raises and his gaze sweeps back to the two figures. ) My apologies. I was not aware that we had the honor of hosting Iskandran royalty.
( governor thorhauge sputters out an excuse, saying that his telegram messages must not have reached the king's attention but that he certainly ordered that communication be sent. of course, it has nothing to do with his almost extreme desire for competition and superiority — if the blue palace was told of the royals' stay, they might leave his state for the capital, and then what can the governor boast of?
constantin ignores him and walks over, bowing to them and speaking their native language with ease and friendliness, )Good morning. Is the Queen in good health and spirits?
( their presence complicates things — perhaps. it could mean nothing. but constantin might have to be more discreet than he normally would if it was only his subjects and countrymen in the household. he may have more to worry about than eavesdropping maids or imprudent children sneaking into meetings. perhaps. )
[ The exchange between his Majesty and the Governor is translated softly for Tsera, who only comes in two modes: scowling and extra scowling, and is ready to lift her nose up and take considerable offense to this whole affair. Enger, despite her title, wasn’t given the same robust entourage to cloister herself in as, ahem, others on this lawn were; sometimes, she thinks her Majesty approved Tsera as an armed attendant purely because she made Enger look particularly agreeable by comparison.
Neither of them expect to be greeted in Iskandran. The tongue of the Tamrakar, the Khanal, the five or so other squabbling little families, as well as scholars of note and entrepreneurs of repute. The language making it across shores is one thing; that the king himself took note and sought to learn was something else entirely.
Enger notes two things.
The first is that she and Tsera will not be able to speak privately in his presence, nor can they know what other ears can hear as the Governor’s hospitality stretches. (There’s always Iskan, but she doesn’t need the headache of trying to peel back Tsera’s accent.)
The second is that some of his pronunciation, although crisp, although maintaining a clear and comprehensible accent, is outdated. Sitting at her great-grandmother’s knee, a dutiful child, she remembers those particular vowel sounds. They’ve since fallen out of disuse—
Ah. No. A pointless thing to quibble at, she decides. After all, Enger hadn’t seen a steam engine or, indeed, prominent steel engineering of any kind before crossing the ocean. It’s the same thing.
With a smile in reserve, she dips her chin. Taking his cue, she answers in Iskandran. ]
She is, your Majesty, and I know she would be pleased you are asking after her. She has sent a gift for Ornefluer’s king, with warm regards and hopes of a continuing friendship.
[ With a slight indicative gesture, tilting a shoulder to the space behind her, ]
Allow me to introduce my retainer, Fahime Tsera. [ Here, she switches to his language, with an accent considerably thicker than his own when speaking hers, and only the occasional conjugation error. ] She is not familiar with [ language name here help ], but we are both hoping to increase our skill in the coming weeks. Please, do not slow down for us. [ And then, carefully, with understanding of their audience - ] Of course, Governor Thorhauge has been a very kind host.
( of course the queen has sent a gift for him with hopes of a continuing friendship. with the hope that he will join the war on their side. as constantin informed the queen's predecessor, though ornefluerians have an aversion to war and conflict. ironic, given that fluer, their patron deity, is sometimes prone to such violent moods that unnerve even the god of war.
ornefluerian memories, however, last long. they remember the price of their last war three hundred years ago: blood on the sand and thousands massacred in minutes. all because of an imagined slight and a bruised ego. the monarchy remembers the price of the last war as well: power and almost its head.
constantin is determined to keep ornefluerian blood from ever spilling.
with the serene and warm countenance of a host, he bows in greeting to the princess's retainer. )Delighted to make thy acquaintance.
( his attention returns to the princess and to ornewood. his accent with the language isn't as noticeable as hers is and, perhaps, won't be apparent until he's heard conversing with a native speaker. ) I am not surprised. Governor Thorhauge is a very kind man. ( to those on his side. to those whom he does not see as competition. he is a very kind man in many regards and, in particular, in how kindly he spreads his suspicious and cutthroat opportunism.
the stares of the governor, along with the rest of the king's entourage, especially his minister of intelligence, is heavy on his back. this is no time for extended pleasantries, even with foreign dignitaries.
with a deeper bow, constantin bids the pair farewell. ) Excuse me. ( he turns to briefly rejoin the governor and his entourage before the group enters the governor's mansion and its bowels where they cannot be disturbed as they conduct their official business. constantin recalls when the mansion was built and how the first governor to stay within its walls was so paranoid that she insisted that secret corridors be dug and built. her paranoia proves beneficial as the king can speak freely as to the reason for his unexpected and impromptu visit. )
[ Fortunately, Enger isn’t one to take dismissal poorly. She dips her chin and returns inside ahead of the group, quietly eager to be out of the cold. Tsera and her scowl are only just behind.
But a royal entourage takes time to greet, and even more time to settle. Enger stays out of the way a-purpose, joining Madame Thorhauge in her parlour for mid-morning tea and conversation—language lessons, by way of conversational practice, although the madame is kind enough not to call it that—before retiring back to her rooms once the flurry has abated. (Princess and retainer both remain sensitive to every sound, every muffled voice and footfall.)
At the appropriate hour, a servant hand delivers a written message to Constantin’s rooms. It’s sealed with a wax stamp depicting three stylised cresting waves and seven stars dotted in the space above, but written on borrowed stationery. The Thorhauge watermark is a bit unsightly, yes, but it can hardly be helped. The message itself is concise, bordering on austere, and painstakingly written in crisp calligraphy. While Enger’s spoken Orneord might be a touch fumbling in places, the only accusation one can make of her written Orneord is an uncanny, careful formality. Perfection, but alien.
In it, she requests sitting down for a conversation. Perhaps over lunch or tea, although she understands that he’s quite busy and will endeavour not to take up too much of his valuable time. Signed, Enger Khanal. No title; no national identifier to cling like burrs to a hemline.
If the seal is broken upon delivery, it will not be Enger’s doing. But she’s purposeful in writing nothing curious, nothing that wandering eyes could find fault or opportunity in. It would be far odder for her to ignore him, after all.
Besides, if he declines to reply, there’s always dinner that evening, and however many extra plates the Governor will be accommodating. ]
( the seal remaining unbroken upon delivery is a testament to the skill and artfulness of his minister of intelligence, monsieur de philippe. not that the king would notice or care, considering the stress of the long trip, the meeting, and the matter weighing heavily on his mind. by the time he receives the message, he is being dressed in his white tunic by his valet. he finishes the letter just as the blue sash is draped over his shoulders and the medallion that hangs around his neck is adjusted.
so he has no opportunity to reply to her request for a conversation, as reasonable as it is, before a servant leads him to the dining room. but there is little use for a written reply when he expects to see her at dinner, where he can give a verbal one. although the trip's purpose is singularly focused on the country's navy, as king, constantin is still expected to attend to diplomatic matters as if the situation doesn't exist and everything is fine.
nothing is amiss, and he can quite easily pretend as such as he waits outside the dining room for his entrance. any worry detected on his blank expression could be attributed to the dinner's seating arrangement. as king, it's only proper that his place is at the head of the table. as it is the governor's mansion, the governor's dinner, and the governor's ego, however, thorhauge should be at the head. constantin has no opinion on the matter, seeing as he has spent most of his life at the end or middle of the table. only recently, in his eyes, has he sat at the head.
thankfully, it turns out to be of no concern when, finally, his name is announced, and he enters the dining room with its silk wallpaper and portraits of fluer and sees a tastefully arranged vase of tulips on a circular dining table. they are all friends here — the king, the governor and his wife, the minister of the interior, the minister of intelligence, captain thea walling of the king's guard, a bishop of fluer, and a princess of iskander — with no need for a hierarchy.
with a practiced smile, constantin bids everyone to sit and takes the only empty chair at the table, between madame thorhauge and the duchess des hauteurs. )
[ The theatrics of dinner with a sitting king nearly catch her off guard, compared to the previous nights. Tsera being banished to eat with the servants isn’t terribly new, but it does make Enger even more acutely aware of the lack of spacing between words of casual speed and that Ornefluer custom uses twice as many utensils as she’s used to.
Servants shuffle around, removing warming dishes and delivery refills of bread and butter, popping corks on bottles. When one takes the liberty of setting a fine cloth napkin on Enger’s lap, she nearly flinches.
The first course passes by. Smiling beatifically between dainty bites, Enger spends much of it in her own head.
For example:
Don’t reach over people. No, don’t reach for things at all. Let the servants curate your meal. Pull your sleeve up, Mistress Thorhauge already called your blackwork barbaric. This fork, not that one. No, that one. It’s just oil made of olives. Yes, it’s delicious. Calm down. You don’t want a repeat of the butter incident.
But not a drop is spilled, not a hair turned nor fumble made into a fracas. The conversation proceeds without much interest in her for the first little while; and she’s rather relieved by it, particularly when her hands stop growing clammy at every unseen entrance over her shoulder or footsteps behind her back. In fact, the only other person who doesn’t seem to regard the staff as pleasantly invisible is the minister of intelligence. More than once, she notes his eyes seem to be everywhere at once with nary an untoward flicker of an eyelash.
It is only when the entree is served that she’s drawn into the conversation. And by drawn into, we mean made the focal point of.
Evidently, they had been talking about religion. Several words and even more references escaped her, but when the Bishop of Fluer inquires about sending apostles to Iskander to help spread the library of God, she inclines her head calmly. ]
I am sure there are many back home who would greatly appreciate a sharing of ideas, your Excellency. But, Iskander’s situation being what it is, I could not in good conscience accept your apostles when I cannot guarantee their safety in the crossing.
[ It’s even true. Regardless of the Bishop’s inquiry making her teeth feel sore with its benign presumptions.
He seems to accept that response, and proceeds to describe how he would be happy to send a trunk full of literature—Bibles, he calls them—for her to have distributed among her countrymen.
She smiles like he and she are the best friends in the world. ]
I am honoured you trust me to escort something so dear to you, your Excellency.
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kicks down the door!!!!
(“I can write my own communiques,” she had commented to her father over dinner. She only let her brow furrow in private.
“A piece of bait doesn’t unlatch her own cage,” he remarked.
“I think of it more as... planting a garden,” Enger said. “Perhaps the queen has decided the north could use more bistort.”
In reply, he only smiled at her and pointed out that she had eaten her whole meal in under three minutes with only her fork; all while her dominant hand wrapped so tightly around her knife the blunt edge of the utensil left a crease in her palm. The message was clear: Enger wasn’t willowy bistort, she was a stinging nettle or a barberry shrub.)
It takes little time to get her trunk packed and her papers in order, although Enger turns down the offer of a palanquin to the coast in favour of a horse and a discreet guard wearing the porter’s unassuming costume. No one expects her to travel unescorted, of course; even if Iskander wasn’t pushing further south with impunity and greed, a commodity needs must accept its cage. Tsera is assigned in lieu of a contingent of guards; standing a head shorter than the princess, only a very keen eye could spot the knives and poison-tinged blow darts strapped to her person.
The trip across the ocean is dull, except when it isn’t. As autumn tips into the beginning of winter, Enger wraps herself in borrowed furs and watches the whales on the horizon. Tsera hovers, mulish about the mouth, at her elbow without respite. They only encounter one storm, the lightning spectacular against the furious, violet sky.
The ocean becomes land. Land becomes a port. The port becomes a smattering of villages and then a city. The breadbasket, they call it. Noise filters in like the angry, orchestrated cry of a barrel of gulls; the sentences of Ornefluer’s people have no spaces between words for Enger to get a foothold. Her lessons in the language had not accounted for the volley of accents across the region. When she can get away with it, she smiles wordlessly and defers the conversation. She’s always been told she has a lovely smile. Half the time, it works.
In the governor’s manse, she’s given the largest guest suite—a parlour with a side alcove as an office space, a bedchamber boasting magnificent double doors, an ensuite bath. (Tsera disappears sullenly down the hall into a smaller room. Enger lets her go, keeping a knife under her pillow as she has for the past five years.)
For a few weeks, Enger gets her bearings. She adjusts her body to the new demands of the sun’s rise and set. She borrows books from the libraries to practice her reading and writing. She entertains, often at the drop of a hat; the governor’s spouse and children, lords and ladies with financial considerations in the breadbasket; one surprisingly long conversation with a retired general fascinated by Iskander’s policy of mandatory military service (“but you’re a princess!” he had blustered, mustache quivering with such force she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing); and whoever else wishes to speak with her.
After the past few years, Enger finds herself grateful for the quiet grace of tedium—even if she continues to freeze at every popped cork and every chair leg screeching across the floor.
She’s frequently awake before the sun and around the same time as the house staff, nursing tea as they bustle for breakfast. One day, the bustle outs with more chaos than usual, bodies hurrying up and down. When the governor rushes out of their rooms without even stopping to say hello, Enger watches with bewilderment and gently gets a maid’s attention. ]
Has something happened?
[ The maid pauses, clutching a small basket of eggs. ]
The king has been spotted in— [ Exactly where the king was supposedly spotted is a word Enger doesn’t recognise, but she nods like she understands.
Just in case, she goes back to her suite and pulls one of her finest dresses out from the bottom of her trunk.
It is, of course, terribly wrinkled. Jane Austen's byronic hero, Mrs Bennet, would be ashamed. ]
gets hit by the door!!!!
this is unplanned. the king never cares to travel far from the capital, especially for any extended time. his aversion deepens now that it's the nadir of winter and the king is away when the snowbanks pile high on the streets of acacia and thick sheets of ice obstruct the ports. but this is unplanned. a stark change in his routine which many claim one can set a clock to. he was not due to travel this far west until after the new year when the buds on the trees begin to bloom and the farmers are in their fields.
but this is unplanned.
they reach the local capital of panier lourd just as the yellow warblers in the trees begin to sing of their sweetness. he recalls when the city was little more than a few rickety huts perched on the shoals whose residents subsisted largely on jackknife clams. he recalls when it was a fishing town with a couple of wooden boats. now the large stone buildings obscure the sunrise as the king exits the royal carriage, onto the cobblestones, and into his carriage. his arrival does not have any of its typical fanfare but it was unplanned. it's best that his presence here is discreet for this visit is not for pleasure.
it's this discretion that dictated the size and composition of his party. it is small — the captain of his guard, his valet, the minister of the interior, and the minister of intelligence. as this visit was unplanned, few others were available to make the two-thousand-mile trip on short notice.
even with discretion, however, it's clear the king's presence in panier lourd has been noticed as the stone buildings turn to trees and they arrive outside of the city at the governor's mansion to a party waiting in the front. informing governor thorhauge of their presence in merdorée is not necessary, as his minister of intelligence monsieur de philippe pointed out just before they departed from the railway station. as king, ornefluer is his land and he can travel through it whenever he wants. but this unplanned and discreet visit requires cooperation.
they will need friends in the coming days.
the king's carriage travels up the gravel path and around the grand fountain before stopping in front of the mansion. governor benjamin thorhauge stands with his wife and their five children, each one sleepy-eyed and pink-cheeked in their silk dresses and suits. his servants are lined behind him like a row of soldiers. without waiting for the coachman, constantin lets himself out of the carriage. the morning sun behind him blazes his hair a copper orange as he steps down.
the king is warm in both expression and words as he greets the governor and his wife. they will need friends in the coming day so he cannot be curt and direct just yet. )
oh no............ you died!!!!
In truth, the less forgiving northerly climes are a touch colder than Enger is used to. Of all the preparation she had been sent with—language lessons, exacting explanations of the differences in social decorum, the carefully selected gifts for every titled peer she could expect to meet—the one thing her Majesty had let slip was making sure Enger’s clothing was warm and inoffensive. Bare shoulders aren’t done here, oh no, the kind Mistress Thorhauge had informed her, discreet and warm; no bare shoulders and certainly no bare ankles. Silk slippers and jade bangles were set aside in favour of a sturdier pair of boots, although the latter was hardly unfamiliar from her months in the mud-trenched borders back home. There was little to be done for Iskandran fashion other than to offer Enger a selection of coats and hope that people look at foreigner unconvention with indulgence, not derision.
She packed poorly. So what? Doubtless her eleganzia with the Iskandran stripes would have been worse received. No one needs to look at her and think of wars halfway across the world.
When she steps out the front doors, it’s in a borrowed coat of dark, muted purple over a paler dress of grey. The colour profile is neither flattering nor diminishing, although she feels stark and alien as the morning cold hits her all over again.
Tsera is sullen at her back, as always. As they hang back, Enger resists glancing back at her to see what she makes of the king’s robust entourage. Unfashionable is one thing; indiscreet and provincial is something else entirely. Over and over, she rehearses the Ornefluer pronunciation of your Majesty in her head.
Out of the corner of her eye, Enger is aware of the youngest son eschewing decorum to wave at her. Her dimpled smile is directed to the side as she waits for an appropriate pause in the conversation, or to be brought within it. ]
no subject
the captain of the king's guard and the intelligence minister stand a few feet from them, far enough away for privacy but close enough in case anything untoward should occur. the king's eyes shift and catch the figures of two unknown people standing just out of his direct line of vision. in a louder voice, he says, ) It must have been longer than I remembered since my last visit. Your household has grown substantially since then.
( monsieur de philippe, his intelligence minister, steps forward and whispers their true identities to the king. constantin's eyebrow raises and his gaze sweeps back to the two figures. ) My apologies. I was not aware that we had the honor of hosting Iskandran royalty.
( governor thorhauge sputters out an excuse, saying that his telegram messages must not have reached the king's attention but that he certainly ordered that communication be sent. of course, it has nothing to do with his almost extreme desire for competition and superiority — if the blue palace was told of the royals' stay, they might leave his state for the capital, and then what can the governor boast of?
constantin ignores him and walks over, bowing to them and speaking their native language with ease and friendliness, ) Good morning. Is the Queen in good health and spirits?
( their presence complicates things — perhaps. it could mean nothing. but constantin might have to be more discreet than he normally would if it was only his subjects and countrymen in the household. he may have more to worry about than eavesdropping maids or imprudent children sneaking into meetings. perhaps. )
no subject
Neither of them expect to be greeted in Iskandran. The tongue of the Tamrakar, the Khanal, the five or so other squabbling little families, as well as scholars of note and entrepreneurs of repute. The language making it across shores is one thing; that the king himself took note and sought to learn was something else entirely.
Enger notes two things.
The first is that she and Tsera will not be able to speak privately in his presence, nor can they know what other ears can hear as the Governor’s hospitality stretches. (There’s always Iskan, but she doesn’t need the headache of trying to peel back Tsera’s accent.)
The second is that some of his pronunciation, although crisp, although maintaining a clear and comprehensible accent, is outdated. Sitting at her great-grandmother’s knee, a dutiful child, she remembers those particular vowel sounds. They’ve since fallen out of disuse—
Ah. No. A pointless thing to quibble at, she decides. After all, Enger hadn’t seen a steam engine or, indeed, prominent steel engineering of any kind before crossing the ocean. It’s the same thing.
With a smile in reserve, she dips her chin. Taking his cue, she answers in Iskandran. ]
She is, your Majesty, and I know she would be pleased you are asking after her. She has sent a gift for Ornefluer’s king, with warm regards and hopes of a continuing friendship.
[ With a slight indicative gesture, tilting a shoulder to the space behind her, ]
Allow me to introduce my retainer, Fahime Tsera. [ Here, she switches to his language, with an accent considerably thicker than his own when speaking hers, and only the occasional conjugation error. ] She is not familiar with [ language name here help ], but we are both hoping to increase our skill in the coming weeks. Please, do not slow down for us. [ And then, carefully, with understanding of their audience - ] Of course, Governor Thorhauge has been a very kind host.
no subject
ornefluerian memories, however, last long. they remember the price of their last war three hundred years ago: blood on the sand and thousands massacred in minutes. all because of an imagined slight and a bruised ego. the monarchy remembers the price of the last war as well: power and almost its head.
constantin is determined to keep ornefluerian blood from ever spilling.
with the serene and warm countenance of a host, he bows in greeting to the princess's retainer. ) Delighted to make thy acquaintance.
( his attention returns to the princess and to ornewood. his accent with the language isn't as noticeable as hers is and, perhaps, won't be apparent until he's heard conversing with a native speaker. ) I am not surprised. Governor Thorhauge is a very kind man. ( to those on his side. to those whom he does not see as competition. he is a very kind man in many regards and, in particular, in how kindly he spreads his suspicious and cutthroat opportunism.
the stares of the governor, along with the rest of the king's entourage, especially his minister of intelligence, is heavy on his back. this is no time for extended pleasantries, even with foreign dignitaries.
with a deeper bow, constantin bids the pair farewell. ) Excuse me. ( he turns to briefly rejoin the governor and his entourage before the group enters the governor's mansion and its bowels where they cannot be disturbed as they conduct their official business. constantin recalls when the mansion was built and how the first governor to stay within its walls was so paranoid that she insisted that secret corridors be dug and built. her paranoia proves beneficial as the king can speak freely as to the reason for his unexpected and impromptu visit. )
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But a royal entourage takes time to greet, and even more time to settle. Enger stays out of the way a-purpose, joining Madame Thorhauge in her parlour for mid-morning tea and conversation—language lessons, by way of conversational practice, although the madame is kind enough not to call it that—before retiring back to her rooms once the flurry has abated. (Princess and retainer both remain sensitive to every sound, every muffled voice and footfall.)
At the appropriate hour, a servant hand delivers a written message to Constantin’s rooms. It’s sealed with a wax stamp depicting three stylised cresting waves and seven stars dotted in the space above, but written on borrowed stationery. The Thorhauge watermark is a bit unsightly, yes, but it can hardly be helped. The message itself is concise, bordering on austere, and painstakingly written in crisp calligraphy. While Enger’s spoken Orneord might be a touch fumbling in places, the only accusation one can make of her written Orneord is an uncanny, careful formality. Perfection, but alien.
In it, she requests sitting down for a conversation. Perhaps over lunch or tea, although she understands that he’s quite busy and will endeavour not to take up too much of his valuable time. Signed, Enger Khanal. No title; no national identifier to cling like burrs to a hemline.
If the seal is broken upon delivery, it will not be Enger’s doing. But she’s purposeful in writing nothing curious, nothing that wandering eyes could find fault or opportunity in. It would be far odder for her to ignore him, after all.
Besides, if he declines to reply, there’s always dinner that evening, and however many extra plates the Governor will be accommodating. ]
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so he has no opportunity to reply to her request for a conversation, as reasonable as it is, before a servant leads him to the dining room. but there is little use for a written reply when he expects to see her at dinner, where he can give a verbal one. although the trip's purpose is singularly focused on the country's navy, as king, constantin is still expected to attend to diplomatic matters as if the situation doesn't exist and everything is fine.
nothing is amiss, and he can quite easily pretend as such as he waits outside the dining room for his entrance. any worry detected on his blank expression could be attributed to the dinner's seating arrangement. as king, it's only proper that his place is at the head of the table. as it is the governor's mansion, the governor's dinner, and the governor's ego, however, thorhauge should be at the head. constantin has no opinion on the matter, seeing as he has spent most of his life at the end or middle of the table. only recently, in his eyes, has he sat at the head.
thankfully, it turns out to be of no concern when, finally, his name is announced, and he enters the dining room with its silk wallpaper and portraits of fluer and sees a tastefully arranged vase of tulips on a circular dining table. they are all friends here — the king, the governor and his wife, the minister of the interior, the minister of intelligence, captain thea walling of the king's guard, a bishop of fluer, and a princess of iskander — with no need for a hierarchy.
with a practiced smile, constantin bids everyone to sit and takes the only empty chair at the table, between madame thorhauge and the duchess des hauteurs. )
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Servants shuffle around, removing warming dishes and delivery refills of bread and butter, popping corks on bottles. When one takes the liberty of setting a fine cloth napkin on Enger’s lap, she nearly flinches.
The first course passes by. Smiling beatifically between dainty bites, Enger spends much of it in her own head.
For example:But not a drop is spilled, not a hair turned nor fumble made into a fracas. The conversation proceeds without much interest in her for the first little while; and she’s rather relieved by it, particularly when her hands stop growing clammy at every unseen entrance over her shoulder or footsteps behind her back. In fact, the only other person who doesn’t seem to regard the staff as pleasantly invisible is the minister of intelligence. More than once, she notes his eyes seem to be everywhere at once with nary an untoward flicker of an eyelash.
It is only when the entree is served that she’s drawn into the conversation. And by drawn into, we mean made the focal point of.
Evidently, they had been talking about religion. Several words and even more references escaped her, but when the Bishop of Fluer inquires about sending apostles to Iskander to help spread the library of God, she inclines her head calmly. ]
I am sure there are many back home who would greatly appreciate a sharing of ideas, your Excellency. But, Iskander’s situation being what it is, I could not in good conscience accept your apostles when I cannot guarantee their safety in the crossing.
[ It’s even true. Regardless of the Bishop’s inquiry making her teeth feel sore with its benign presumptions.
He seems to accept that response, and proceeds to describe how he would be happy to send a trunk full of literature—Bibles, he calls them—for her to have distributed among her countrymen.
She smiles like he and she are the best friends in the world. ]
I am honoured you trust me to escort something so dear to you, your Excellency.
[ Anyway, what’s the rest of the table doing? ]