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Weaving between hills and forest, the train between Krivoburg and Pragwyn put on a show of rusted trees and blue sky. Stellarterra was colder than Earth in late September, painting the landscape into a leaf peeper’s paradise. There were many other rails worldwide, but theirs was the first to run on an electrified line at a tremendous speed of forty miles per hour.
One round trip took an hour and a half. The two daily rounds were scheduled in the early morning and afternoon so that people working or doing business or working around the line could reach their jobs in time. It was a glorified commuter train.
The passengers in the compartment were a mixed bunch. Thomas’s wife, prospecting buying a lot near Prague. A Krivoburg entrepreneur searching for financing to enlarge his beer brewery, carrying samples. If not for Irene, Vincent would have tasted some just to have an idea of the quality, and for sure, if the beer was good, he would have invested on the spot. He settled for a few samples stored in his ring. Titan and Selim occupied the last two places.
The rail station was built barely half a mile from the castle, a distance they could have walked leisurely, yet a luxury coach waited from them and an escort of twenty mounted guards along it. Some had trumpets, others drums, and were not shy of using them. Vincent felt grateful the distance was so short.
At the castle, Titan and Selim were escorted to a ministers’ meeting to discuss finance and logistics, and Irene and Vincent went to a guest apartment. They were spending the night there.
“The meeting is half an hour,” the servant escorting them said, forwarding his hand for a tip. “I’ll come to escort you,” the man said joyfully after receiving a gold piece.
Vincent had everything inside the ring, but Irene had brought a leather suitcase, which she opened, searching for an appropriate dress for a royal meeting. He threw himself on the bed, hands under his head, waiting for Irene to change, dozing intermittently.
“Ready,” she said. “Do you like it?”
“Whoa!” Vincent gasped, his lower jaw falling downward. All the muscles in his body suddenly fell limp. The cute Nekojin girl he loved had miraculously transformed into a goddess of sexiness and fashion. Her hair flowed free, in large curls framing her face down to the shoulders, yet revealing the beautiful neckline well enough. The simple and black dress advantaged Irene’s shapes to perfection, but the main difference was the high heels, favoring her thin ankles and calves.
“I know, I look like a bimbo,” she sulked.
“You’re beautiful!” Vincent rushed to hug and kiss her.
“You’ll ruin my makeup!” she pushed him away. “I don’t like to dress up. I want people to like me as I am… You do love me because I’m smart, right?” she frowned at him.
“Absolutely not,” Vincent shook his head, attempting to kiss her again. “I love you because you’re cute.” This time, he succeeded because she stopped resisting and slakjawed.
“Because… I’m… cute?” Irene repeated, like not believing her ears.
“Sure. Cute, but also dependable, and caring for me and everyone.”
“But—”
“Look!” Vincent grabbed her shoulders. “I like you being smart. The point is, I do not necessarily understand your smartness. When you talk paradigms and stratification, my brain is like, ‘Ouch!’ But I do see the result… So, I like you for the result of your smartness and because you’re so pretty… cute… and beautiful… and sexy… and cannot wait for the night.” Vincent said, pecking her lips after each compliment.
Irene nodded, looking through him. “Actually, you are judging my theories after their outcome… The decisional analysis is second to—”
“Cute definitely comes first,” he kissed her again.
“Stop it!” she blushed, putting a hand on his chest like a barrier. “Shit, I have to do my lips again… where did I put my lipstick? Irene looked around.
“It’s in your hand,” Vincent said, letting her some space and calling for a suit his mother had insisted on bringing despite his opposition. And yet again, she had been proven right.
Five minutes later, the same servant knocked at the door, and after the same amount of time of hiking through labyrinthic corridors, they reached the meeting room. It was fifty feet deep and twenty wide, with large armchairs covered in furs and game trophies on the walls. Logs burned in the fireplace, creaking and shooting sparks toward the chimney.
“Welcome, my friends,” Karel came to meet them.
“Your majesty,” Vincent bowed, and Irene curtsied.
“Take a seat. There’s mulled wine, coffee, and cakes,” Karel gestured toward the low tables.
There were four distinct groups in the room. Karel and his prime minister, his aunt, were the first. Irene and Vincent joined them. In the center was a group of three men and one woman, all blond and tall. If anything screamed Viking, they did. Their clothes, nevertheless, were plain, on the side of business suits, but more comfortable. No nonsense. A lot like his, and he started to like them on the spot.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Sitting as far away as possible from each other were the Celts and the Byzantines, again, four of each. The first were clad in metal armor, their heads free, and their group was also made of a woman and three men. The Byzantines were all men and priests… or they liked long black robes adorned with crosses and various symbols. Vincent couldn’t know the Southern fashion, after all. The priests had opted for the mulled wine, the Vikings for the coffee, and the Celts for plain water. Vincent and Irene chose coffee, the king’s aunt's water, and a glass of mulled wine Karel.
“Are you of age to drink, your majesty?” Irene asked. Vincent could read the struggle between being polite and doing the right thing on her face. The latter had won.
Karel raised his right hand, showing her a ring. “Neutralizes poisons and alcohol… Perks to be a king. But your conscience can rest easy, Guildchess Irene. I am now eighteen.”
“Wine is harmless. Even babies can drink it,” the youngest-looking priest said, which attracted an ugly stare from Irene. And Vincent’s antipathy. The man had commented on something Irene had said not by pettiness but from her heart, for the king’s own good.
“Since we’re all here, let’s start,” Karel said. “We have two matters to discuss. The first is the Wrocslau intervention, and the second is the signing of treatises. Guildcher Vincent was not here for the last month, so a review is an order.”
“This is related to that Khan stuff, right?” Vincent asked.
“Yes,” the king nodded. “There are two main contenders for the Grand Khan’s title. The brother and the son of the former one. We support the son, and with your Amazons’ help, he reached a friendly faction.”
“The uncle is more powerful,” the aunt said. “He abandoned the Mongol ways years ago and built himself a stronghold around Wrocslau. He invested in weaponsmithing—”
“By stealing our inventions,” the Viking woman pointed.
“The Grand Khan’s son promised he would cease raids against us and renounce his rights over the Wrocslau area if we support his claim,” Irene added. “The pretender and his troops are waiting in the East. We have our Amazons in the south—”
“Our troops are amassing to the North, and their airships are waiting at the border,” the Viking woman said, looking at the Celts.
“Per our treatises, we vetoed the incursion,” another priest, the oldest of them, spoke.
“None of them can make war without the others' approval,” Irene whispered to Vincent. He realized that her low voice was loud enough for the others to hear, and it had been done on purpose to clarify in a few words what might have taken a long diplomatic explanation. And in the process, she made Vincent look not like a simpleton who barely knew the Realm’s politics but a Hero who didn’t pay attention to such matters.
Yep… smart and cute… I can’t decide what I love her more for… “In our world, Wrocslau is in a country called Poland,” Vincent said. “We remove the uncle and let them govern themselves.”
“Govern themselves under whose supervision?” the priest raised his palms heavenward. “That’s the main question.”
“The differences between Central European and Northern European Slavs are small here,” Irene sussured, with the same intention as before. “We’re not bound by treatises yet. We can take Wrocslau ourselves.”
“We wouldn’t mind it,” the priest said.
“You’ll need our air support,” the Celt woman said. “Wrocslau is heavily defended.”
“We have our ways,” Vincent said. “Is any of you opposed to conquering it ourselves? We won’t stop any commerce if it’s a concern. We’re most interested in having access to the Northern markets, and I guess you could benefit from dealing with us, too,” he looked at the Vikings.
“As long you deliver on your promise, we’re fine with it,” the Viking woman spoke. Again, no-nonsense in the group’s attitude.
“Suit yourself,” the Celt woman shrugged. He obviously conveyed: ‘You won’t be able to do it without us, but go, learn your lesson the hard way.’
“We happily agree,” the priest said.
“I guess that concludes the matter,” Karel rubbed his hands. “What about the treatises? For me, the same rules as you have would work fine.”
“His Majesty the Clockwork Queen is agreeing with this proposition,” the Celt woman said after looking at something resembling a pager. “She’ll wait for you in Parisi for the signing two weeks after the New Year’s carnival.”
“You’ll like Byzance this time of the year,” a priest said. “You can start with us.”
The man had a jovial face and was not the one who had ‘corrected’ Irene. Vincent liked his vibe. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “In your case, is it possible for us to sign in somewhere else? Like Budapest or Sofia?”
“It’s the custom for the juniors to come to the seniors,” the older priest said.
“It might be… but if I remember well, I recently slain one of your princes. Lucius whatever.” The Byzantine delegation remained silent, staring at him. “What if his friends or relatives try to get revenge?”
“You’ll be safe. The Emperor will take care of it,” the older priest said in a shaky voice.
“It’s not what I meant. If someone tries to harm us, I’ll have to kill them too. Princes, kings, Archetypes… I don’t care,” Vincent said. “Whoever comes after me or my friends is free game.”
He hadn’t minced his choice of words words. Slain, whatever, I don’t care, game… It reinforced the image Irene created about him, and in fact, that image was true. He had no qualms about killing his enemies.
The older priest grimaced, leaning forward. “Young man—”
“Enough!” the priest Vincent disliked slapped his palm on the coffee table, making the cups tremble.
“But prince Comnene—”
“I said enough,” the man slammed the table again.
So… also a priest… and a relative of the one I blew up?
“He’s right!” the young man continued, to Vincent’s surprise. “I can vouch for myself, but would you gamble your head that my brothers won’t try something stupid? Lucius was an ambitious hothead. Everyone knows that if he’d succeeded, he would have claimed the Bogomil lands for himself… But family is family, and honor is honor… Other hotheads think like him. If they come to us, there’s no safety guarantee, for us or them,” the man turned his torso toward his colleagues.
“Then what should we do?” the old priest said. “The Emperor can’t go to a—”
“We stall… Let them conquer Wrocslau if they can. Prove themselves. Maybe the emperor will consider receiving Guildcher Vincent’s homage in some town near the border during an unannounced visit.”
Vincent had to admit the young priest was a good politician.
“Then it’s settled,” Karel said. “I trust Vincent to conquer a new province for our kingdom. And we’ll start signing the treatises with the Northern and Celtic federation first.”
“Any preference when to sign the treaty?” Vincent looked at the Vikings.
“None whatsoever,” the northern woman said. “Come north whenever you want. Protocol is for snobs and losers.” Vincent had to repress laughter. He definitely liked the Viking group.
“So, you all stay for dinner, right?” Karel interjected, raising and giving the signal that the meeting had been adjourned. He led the way to the door but opened it to let his aunt go out first, like a gentleman.