At the Queen_s command

"Beg pardon, Highness, but will you be greeting the ship or receive the commander here?"

"Send my coach for him. Also ask Count von Metternin and Captain Strake if they can attend me."

"Yes, sire, very good, sire."

Vlad retired to the Captain's Walk with his telescope. He studied the ship. It came into the harbor under one sail only and dropped anchor well shy of the docks. This struck the Prince as curious, for unless the commander had reasons to keep his troops on board, he should have come directly to the wharves. The signal flags indicated no illness, which was the last thing they needed. An epidemic killing Mystrians and devastating troops would be an ill omen.

Count von Metternin waited for him in his office. The Kessian had dressed in his light blue uniform, having added a red sash with medals and a heavy cavalry saber. His hat he'd set on a chair, its previously jaunty plume replaced by a turkey feather.

They shook hands and the Count smiled. "I thought it would help our cause if I were properly attired."

"To be quite frank, I had hoped whomever they sent would not be overly impressed with uniforms and medals." Vlad sighed. He wanted someone who would take charge and destroy du Malphias instead of an indolent noble focused on his own advancement.

"I do find curious, Count von Metternin, your use of the word 'our'."

"Do you?" The Kessian smiled. "I have taken to your Mystria. I find the openness and honesty refreshing. I stand ready to do what I can to preserve this special place, for its own sake, and that of the Princess."

"Good, a… land like Mystria needs good men." Vlad turned to the model to cover his surprise. He'd almost said country. Suggesting that Mystria could be its own nation was treasonous. Vlad put it down to his having already called up militia without Norillian authorization. He would have made war on a Tharyngian outpost. If successful, the assault would have been hailed as a Norillian victory and, if a failure, blamed entirely on the people of Mystria.

"Your land breeds good men." Von Metternin walked slowly around the model. "You may not notice these things, but I do. A man like Nathaniel Woods, for example, do you know what he would be on the Continent or in Norisle?"

Vlad smiled. "A highwayman?"

"Quite possibly. He certainly would not be the confidant to a prince. All the forces that could be brought to bear would keep him in his place. Yes, he might enlist in the army and would fight well, but rise to rank even as Captain Strake has? This could not happen. And it could not happen because if it did happen-on merit-men like me, men of the aristocracy, would have to destroy him. His existence threatens the system which exalts us."

"It sounds as if you do not hold the nobility to be special."

"You mistake me. I think many are. I am, you are, and there are many more examples. But I wonder if a man like Mr. Woods would not be even more special given the opportunities we have had. He is a very smart man, but he does not read. How much more would he understand and be able to offer if he did?"

The Count pointed at the model. "Do you not think, had Captain Strake not escaped, that Woods and his friends would have made an attempt to free him?"

"They might have."

"Defying a direct order is behavior that would lead one to be declared an outlaw in Kesse-Saxeburg-unless, of course, they were successful. Then they would just never be put in a situation to disobey again." The Count smiled. "This is not to say that Mystria is free of politics. It is just that the practitioners do not have centuries-long family traditions, memories, and vendettas to guide them."

Chandler appeared at the office door. "Prince Vladimir, I am to present Her Majesty's Military Governor, John Lord Rivendell."

Rivendell! Vlad managed to cover his surprise at first, then Rivendell walked through the door. Whereas he had been expecting an older man, stout and balding, using a cane, a much younger man entered, clad in a uniform of red and gold satin, with black shoes and gold buckles, red knickers and waistcoat, white shirt and hose. The man carried a cane, but as a baton, not anything useful. His hat had two feathers, both impossibly long, and his shirt had a lace collar and cuffs.

The man, long-faced and slender, save for a pouchy belly, paused just past the doorway. He swept his hat off in a grand gesture, bowing very low, his left foot pointed forward. He came back up, his face alight with a grin wide enough to almost touch his ears.

He barked a quick laugh. "I told you they'd be surprised, Langford. Ain't I right? Ain't I? That's three crowns you owe me."

Colonel Langford emerged from his shadow. "Yes, your lordship."